Late Night Confessions
by yohdawn
Summary: Lexa had always fought her demons alone. But then she meets Clarke. The beautiful, smart and talented Clarke. It seems that things are starting to change for the better, although she cannot help but wonder how long it will be until the darkness consumes her again. Can they both help each other heal or will they damage one another even further? Modern college/ university
1. Chapter 1

You wonder how much pain you can swallow before you fall apart. The nights are long, too long. In those painstakingly long hours you breathe, uncertainty and loneliness seeps into your bones. Instead of lighting on fire, they become even colder. You try to make sense of the tragedy you call your life, but realize you know less and less every time. You try to remember a moment when you weren't under pressure, but you can't seem to recall it. " _Future_ " seems like a foreign concept. You struggle to understand how you can feel so much and nothing at all at the same time. It makes your head hurt, so you stop analyzing. You just want everything to halt, to lie still; you just want to stop running around like crazy. Always searching, always waiting and… " _Almost_ " is the word etched into your skin and bones. You feel it everywhere, weaved into everything you do, say and feel. Nothing ever is enough, and you grow weary of constantly being not good enough. You want peace and stillness and laziness, but you think about how much needs to be done and you just exhale violently. You used to like being busy, now you're just not so sure anymore. You blame the apathy that has settled into the back of your mind, just out of reach.

You close your eyes and fall asleep to the sound of rain when there is none.

* * *

Your parents always told you that you have to be the best at everything. And even when they weren't constantly repeating this to you, you started doing it yourself. Not that you think you're better than everyone else, no, you're not that arrogant. You just want to be everything your parents ever hoped for. It is a weird feeling and you often feel like a hypocrite. One second you want to succeed because you're ambitious yourself, the next – you want your parents to be proud of you. Sometimes – you just hate them with all of your heart completely. You constantly juggle these feelings and it takes a huge toll on you. You didn't even notice the depression permeating your life until you find yourself crying silently on the kitchen floor at 3 AM. Even now, you remember the blood dripping across your skin, painting the white floor crimson red.

People say that it gets better. You haven't noticed.

* * *

You groan as you get out of bed, unhappy that you sleep far less than you should (you get 4 hours at best). You're not sure you even know what month it is, not to mention the day of the week. Every day is the same. Your self-destructive tendencies thrive wildly. You've stopped looking both ways when crossing the street; you indulge in your " _coffee and cigarettes_ " breakfast; you never eat anything else. Every day is a blur of dark colors, but the world keeps on spinning. You stop paying attention to it entirely.

You sigh and plaster on a fake smile when you walk into the university, knowing that this will get you less questions. Less questions means less talking about the things that don't matter. You pull through, even though you see your cracked face in the bathroom mirror on every break in between the classes. You wonder if anyone notices how much your lips hurt, that your eyes are cold and dead. Probably not. Sometimes you do thank people for their ignorance.

"Lexa" you hear someone shout your name from a distance. You turn your head to see your friend Octavia. You met her and Raven in your first year, when you accidentally bumped into them in the cafeteria. Your backpack slung over your shoulder, just like now, you were trying to figure out the class schedule and the locations of the auditoriums. You didn't even notice the two girls right in front of you until you realized that you were falling. You were waiting for them to scream at you, to yell " _Watch where you're going!_ " or something similar, something insulting. They never did. They helped you up and gathered your things; they even bought you a cup of hot coffee because you just couldn't stop shaking. You became friends soon after.

"Yeah?" You stop and wait for her to catch up with you in a crowded corridor.

"I wondered if you are free today after-, do you feel alright? You look kind of pale to me," Octavia asks, concerned. You just clutch your books to your chest tighter, shutting off.

"I'm fine, just didn't sleep much. I had to study for that social politics class," You answer automatically. It's easier to say that you're tired, rather than explain why you're sad. Especially when you don't know either. You don't want to worry her with things you don't know yourself, with things you can't understand, things you can't seem to find the appropriate words for.

"Ok, see you later then." You can see that Octavia is not fully convinced, but she doesn't pry.

"Sure," You smile softly as you go to your next class.

* * *

You sit in your copyright law class and try to pay attention, to take notes, but your mind just keeps on wandering. You think about things that are definitely not related to copyright law by any means. You think about the stars, the universe, the planets and their landscapes. You think how peaceful it would be if you had your own little planet, how you would solemnly float in outer space, alone. Someone coughs nearby and you break out from your thoughts. You sigh as you put away your pen, understanding that you won't write down much anyway. You tuck a strand of your curly hair behind one ear and look around the auditorium, observing other students and their ways of coping with this boring as hell class. You decide to count how many students are in attendance, how many of these little individual planets are floating in this general spaces of yours. You're impressed that most are listening to the lecturer, or maybe they are just sleeping with their eyes open, who knows. When your eyes land on a blonde that is clearly drawing something, your breath hitches at how beautiful she is. Her shoulder length wavy hair cascades down her face, framing it. The sun hits her hair just right; it looks like everything around her is dyed in gold.

You seem to forget how to breathe.

* * *

This becomes a habit somewhat. You watch the beautiful blonde in your copyright law class. Sometimes she talks with a girl sitting nearby and they'd laugh at something. Sometimes she pays attention and even takes notes of the class. But most of the time she spends drawing. You're not sure though, you think that she's drawing. It's in the way she intently holds the pen in her left hand, how her jaw clenches and unclenches at times, how she stares attentively at the paper in front of her. You somewhat find it funny, because this class is one of the more difficult ones this semester, but it doesn't seem that the blonde is fazed by this at all.

Sometimes she looks around the auditorium herself and when your eyes meet, she just smiles softly as you pretend to be looking somewhere else entirely. But you're smiling, too.

"Lexa!" Someone yells your name. The voice is unfamiliar, so you just feel very confused. You turn around to see the blonde from your copyright class stare at you expectantly. Wait, it can't be? How does she know who you are? She's more beautiful than you thought, now that you finally see her up close. Her wavy hair, her blue eyes, the dimple on her chin… A weird feeling sets into your stomach. You realize you still haven't answered though.

"Ye-, yes?" You stutter as your voice is hoarse from not speaking for a while, your hand is gripping the strap of your backpack, your sleepy mind awake in seconds.

"You forgot your notebook in class," she says casually, waving your forgotten notebook in front of your face while smiling. Her smile is so bright you have to stare at the ground for a bit.

"Oh… Yeah, thank you," you say lamely as you carefully take the book out of her hands, not really understanding how you could have forgotten it in the first place. "By the way, how did you know my name?" You ask curiously, realizing that you have never introduced yourself. You would have remembered, you're sure about that.

"It's written on the first page, silly," the blonde answers simply. "Lexa Woods," she says your name as she starts walking in the opposite direction, probably making her way to another class, or maybe back to the dorms.

"Wait!" The blonde slows at your words and stares back at you, waiting. "And you are?" you try as she smiles widely.

"Have fun figuring it out, Lexa," she smirks and then turns around, quickening her pace and vanishing from sight.

You are left standing in the middle of the crowded corridor, holding the notebook, intrigued.

* * *

"Raven," you start. "Do you know who that girl is?" You point out the blonde as the two of you, plus Octavia, are having lunch in the cafeteria, sitting at the table and watching the girl that is a little further ahead.

"Which one?" Octavia interrupts, playfully showing the food in her mouth, stretching her neck and looking around. "Clarke?" She asks, but you just shrug, not certain.

"Yeah, it's Clarke," Raven confirms. "Why do you ask?" She wiggles her eyebrows and bursts out laughing as your cheeks burn a bit.

Clarke. You like this name. You like how it rolls off of your tongue when you pronounce it. It's not a common name; you've never heard a girl's name like that, but still, you think it suits her.

"I just have copyright law with her and she returned my forgotten notebook the other day," you say, picking at your food. "How do you know her?" You glance towards Clarke again. She's sitting with 4 people and they are all laughing heavily.

"We're good friends with her," Octavia says, her mouth full. "We hang out together."

"Yeah?" You stop eating for a bit, surprised. "Why have I never seen you at the university together?"

"We usually hang out after classes," Raven interjects, holding out her empty fork for emphasis. "Cause all of our classes are so different but they usually end at the same time."

"Wait, it's the same Clarke you always talk about? The same one that is studying art?" You can't believe how stupid you are. Though Raven and Octavia have never mentioned what she looked like so you can't really blame yourself that much for ignorance.

"Yeah, the same one," Octavia confirms, shoving more food into her mouth and chewing aggressively.

"We're grabbing coffee after classes today," Raven smiles and finishes eating, pushing the empty tray away from her. "Want to join us?"

"I'm not sure," your throat is suddenly very dry. "Can I?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.

"Of course you can, Lexa, you're our friend," Raven says while getting up. "Text you later?"

"Sure," you nod as you get up too, finished with your lunch, carrying the tray in one hand and your backpack in another.

"Come on, O. We need to get to our physics class. Mr. Johnson won't like it if we're late," she pushes Octavia playfully and you hear Octavia complain for the hundredth time to not call her " _O_ " and how Mr. Johnson doesn't like anyone anyway.

* * *

"Wait, let me get this right. So you're Lexa, _the_ Lexa that is studying international politics?" Clarke asks astonished. "And I only get to meet you now, even though we've had copyright law for an entire month?" She stares at you intently and you just laugh and take a sip of the warm coffee in your hands.

"Raven, _why the fuck_ have you never told me that Lexa and I have classes together?" Clarke turns and nudges Raven, who's been complaining about her engineering class to Octavia.

"How am I supposed to know with whom you have your classes with? (Restructure: How am I supposed to know who you have classes with?) I know tons of people who have tons of different classes," Raven says, annoyed, as Octavia drinks the whole cup of black coffee in one gulp, crumpling the paper cup afterwards.

"Easier, Octavia," you warn her. "Don't want your heart to jump out of your chest," all of you laugh while Octavia grumpily mutters something under her breath.

"I'm just pissed that I have to write an essay for tomorrow and can't meet up with Lincoln tonight," her head is down and long dark hair cascades over her face, her sharp jaw is tight, fists clenched.

"Same, I wanted to meet up with Finn," Raven says sadly, tightening her ponytail and taking a sip of her coffee. "Why the hell does the lecturer need an essay due tomorrow when he only told us about it today?" Her angry face scrunches as her hold on the paper cup tightens.

"Easy there, you will both manage," Clarke says, smiling warmly and getting up. "Should we head back to the dorms?" The blonde asks, as you and Raven finish your drinks and get up as well.

"Yeah, we need to write that idiotic essay," Octavia says as she starts gathering up her things.

"What about you, Lexa?" Clarke asks while the four of you leave the coffee shop, not that far from the dorms. Though it's early autumn, the wind is really chilly and all of you complain about the cold immediately.

"Nothing for tomorrow," you answer shyly, suddenly not knowing how to act around Clarke. The Clarke that Octavia and Raven told you so much about. The funny, beautiful Clarke Griffin who is studying fine arts and is incredibly talented and smart.

"Good, your classes are as hard as they are, you need to relax sometimes. Especially when all of us are already in our third year. It's tiresome," Clarke says dramatically and laughs, but you feel your chest tighten with a feeling you can't recall.

The four of you walk to the dorms, chatting. Raven and Octavia are roommates and live in the 1st dormitory building which is the closest. You and Clarke live in the 3rd building, just a bit further. You say your goodbyes to Raven and Octavia, wishing them good luck with their essays. They just groan in response and you giggle lightly as Clarke laughs wholeheartedly. You can hear Raven yelling " _It's not funny!_ " inside of the building, her voice echoing. You and Clarke continue walking towards your dorms.

"I've had fun today," Clarke interrupts the somewhat awkward silence as she searches your face.

"Yeah, me too," you look up at her and it suddenly doesn't seem as cold as it was. But maybe it's just your imagination. You're both silent again, but it is much more comfortable. You finally reach the building and take the stairs as you climb to the second floor. Then Clarke suddenly stops. You almost walk into her, not noticing how abruptly she stopped in the middle of the hall.

"This is my dorm," she points with her head to the door and starts searching her bag.

"Mine is just a bit further," you say, dumbfounded. "I can't believe we never ran into one another."

"Weird, right?" Clarke shakes her head in disbelief, both hands shoved in her bag. "I mean, you just live down the hall and we even have classes together. I have no idea how we've never met."

"Well, I don't really get out that much; I usually spend the time in my room studying," you answer shyly as you avoid her eyes and stare at the wooden door of her room.

"Nerd," the blonde smiles. "What about your roommate?" Clarke asks still searching her bag, not able to find the key.

"I don't have one," you state simply. "I live in a single dorm room".

"You do? Damn, I'm so jealous. I mean, not that my roommate is horrible but sometimes I'd like some privacy or something and I never-" Clarke rambles a bit and then stops. "It was really nice meeting you. Those two idiots talk a lot about you."

"Really? What do they say?" You're somewhat concerned because Raven and Octavia are not exactly predictable people and you wonder what they could have told her.

"Only the good things, I assure you. But I'm mad they never told me…" Clarke finally takes out the key to her room and unlocks the door.

"They never told you what?" You don't understand as Clarke observes your curious face for a bit.

"That you're so breathtakingly beautiful," Clarke smiles that bright smile, and then slips into her dorm room without a sound.

You stand near her door for quite some time. Just until your cheeks stop burning. Just until you remember how breathing and walking works.

* * *

Weeks pass and you and Clarke spend more and more time together. You grab coffee at the coffee shop, silently read books together, listen to music in your dorm room and hang out whenever you have the chance. You feel as if you've known her as long as Raven and Octavia, even if it isn't true. You always wait for her (or the other way round) after the copyright law class and you go to the dorms together. You start spending more time together, the four of you – often grabbing lunch and making fun of Octavia's way of eating. Clarke is a great listener, she always has her opinion and it is always backed up. Clarke is funny, smart, beautiful, charming… You like the weight of her hands on your shoulders when she pulls you into a hug and your face burns bright red. You like how your shoulders bump into each other when you sit together during lunch, listening to Raven complain about how everyone in her engineering class is an idiot. But today…

But today is weird as hell. You feel as if something is about to happen, you're not even sure what, but it haunts you like a bad omen. The copyright class is boring as always. You sneak a glance at Clarke. She's just staring somewhere blankly, not really seeing anything and something unknown rises in your chest. Is it possible for your heart to beat this fast when you're dead inside? The class is over before you know it, and you just stare at Clarke, distraught. Your hands are shaking and you curse yourself for being such a coward. Why are you afraid to talk to her? You became good friends, you talk almost every day, what is it that today is so different? But it's as if you're rooted to the ground, unable to take a step forward, unable to breathe. You see locks of blonde hair even from where you're standing in the auditorium. You ignore a short flutter. As you mutter " _Fuck_ " to yourself multiple times, you carefully approach her.

"Hey, Clarke," you say, trying to act casually but something deep down feels so wrong.

Her head hangs low as she's putting books back into her bag, getting ready to go to the dorms, but you feel a certain, almost invisible, sadness in her movements. Your stomach turns.

"Hi, Lexa," she barely mutters, her voice shaking.

"What's on your mind?" You try, but you realize that these are dangerous waters you tread. Clarke says nothing, just smiles sadly and walks away.

You wonder if you are not the only one broken here, too.

* * *

You and Clarke haven't talked for a few days. You don't want to push her, you want to give her time, but you feel pain in your chest because you don't know what happened. And you don't want to be intrusive and pry, you never like when other people do that to you, but Clarke is not you and you're not really sure what you should do.

"I'm fine, just tired," your smile is guilty as you lie through your teeth and Raven shakes her head in disapproval. But nobody else notices because you're that damn good. " _I'm just sleepy/ tired/ had so much shit to do/ drank too much_ " any of these work like a charm every time. Nobody ever questions it because they know how seriously you take your studies. It's just that you've been depressed and absolutely unmotivated for the past few months but you never tell anyone. You hide the scars under long sleeves of your shirts.

"I know that you've been feeling down lately, is it because of your parents?" Raven asks.

"No," you answer as you pull out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of your leather jacket.

"Lexa, talk to me," Raven pleads as she leans into the corridor's wall, concern evident in her eyes. You break a little because you want to but you just… can't.

"I can't really explain it," you put a cigarette between your teeth and walk into the rain knowing that she won't follow. No umbrella to cover you as you struggle for a few seconds with a cheap lighter before it finally gives in. You purposely inhale too much and feel lightheaded, barely able to suppress a cough coming from your chapped lips. You brush it off and repeat the action again. You repeat it multiple times, again and again. You think about how some people can be dead while still being alive.

* * *

You barely sleep, just think and think about everything going wrong. You spend your day vacantly staring through the window, listening to the same song on repeat for hours. You never really hear it.

It takes an immense amount of energy to get up. You don't want to go to classes, you just want to stay inside and forget about the world and its pretenses. But you know that this is not the way it goes. You lock the door and pretend that you don't notice the dark clouds and the rain.

You just stand there observing her, your eyes travelling the length from her shoulders to the small of her back. She turns to you and gives you a warm smile. You return the smile, but instead of meeting her eyes, you stare at the ground. " _Is everything fine?_ " You think. " _You should just talk to her_." You don't know, you're just coming up with reasons to hear her voice, to see those blue eyes, to listen to that laugh. Maybe you should give her space? But maybe you should at least try to talk to her? You need to try, just a bit, just a little more, but you feel conflicted. A million thoughts fly by. You open your mouth, at that same moment you hear a short " _Bye_ " and the thought is lost forever.

* * *

You fucked up big time. And you can't even blame it on anyone, you weren't even drunk.

He leans in and kisses you over the gearbox and you revel in the moment, having longed for any sort of human contact. Your brain screams at how wrong it is, but for once, you just shut it off completely. He has been eyeing you all evening, asking things. You know that look; you've learned to read men well. But not women. Who cares, right? He tells you jokes and asks you relevant questions. He is nice, polite and smart. He smiles and you think how easy it would be. The bar is full and the birthday party of your friend is going well. You sip your drink and think that this is fun, to go out, to meet new people, to forget. The bar is full of people and you don't even notice it, you give all of your attention to him. You talk more; he later gives you a ride home. You think about how liking him would be easy, it should be right, not the disastrous way that you fall for women who don't give a fuck about you. No, not that, not entirely. They just never seem like you back.

You forget about how it's seven in the morning. You forget about the possibility of leading him on. You forget about the girl with locks of gold and a sad smile. You forget about everything and just kiss him back.

* * *

You smoke a second cigarette and take a big gulp of the bitter coffee. Your head pulses and there's a surge of caffeine in your blood. You close your eyes and let yourself forget everything for a few seconds. But when they end, you're drowned in the heaviness of reality again. You walk down the corridor, the space seems so confined, so narrow. You sit through a boring copyright law class and don't listen to anything at all. You just think about how complicated everything is. About how you never are able to make it better. Not for yourself, not for anyone else. Useless.

"You're distraught," someone says and you just murmur something about a birthday party and a fucked up sleeping schedule. There's a headache threatening to bloom, but you just ignore it and continue staring through the window. The world disappears altogether.

* * *

"Lexa," Clarke says silently as you are trying to unlock the door to your room. You freeze at the sound of her voice. You turn to find her there, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Both of you are silent and staring at each other.

"Clarke," you nod at her, emotionless.

"I'm-, I'm sorry," you hear her say. Your heart might flutter if it wasn't so dead. It takes seconds for you to acknowledge the fact that you're about a meter away, and it's so close, yet not close enough. The clock is ticking and time is melting away painfully.

"I'm so sorry," Clarke repeats. You can hear the hurt in her voice, she is hurting.

You open your mouth; you want to say something, anything. Casually tell her how beautiful her smile is, ask about her plans for the weekend. But you just quietly watch her leave, regret bitter on your tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

Days pass and it's like your existence without Clarke is just slowly fading away into oblivion. You never even noticed how much she meant to you until you stopped hanging out, quite abruptly to be honest. You know that something terrible happened, but you don't know what exactly. You lie in bed and think about how there was something about Clarke that captivated you beyond mere interest. Every day, every second from that time when you first saw her. You think that it was the way she laughed, her laugh so infectious, that it would make you smile even when you'd pretend you're seriously contemplating your notes or the professor's lecture (your mind in fact blank to everything but her cheeks flushing). You think it was the way the whole room would illuminate when she smiled, a smile so intense that you had to close your eyes for a bit. Occasionally, you would just stare at her and think " _Why her?",_ but when she turned to you and smile that smile of hers, your questions were immediately wiped out of your memory until the end of time. Clarke had many great qualities – she was attentive, a great listener, she was smart, funny. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was easygoing. But underneath all that laid back attitude, there was a certain seriousness to her. One of the many other amazing qualities she had was that she could make you forget. She made you forget to think too much, and it was _so calming and so good_ to stop thinking at least once in a while. It's the ability to heal that you found so soothing and comforting, so warm and raw You find her soothing nature comforting, so warm and raw.. The way you could feel your wounds lessen, the blood stop dripping. And you're grateful. That's why you're so drawn to her, like a moth to a candle flame. But now you slam your fist into a wall, not even wincing from the ache. Damn it. You don't want to have feelings. You can't. Not after what happened with… You lie in bed, in the darkness of the night, and think how you can't take it anymore; you need to talk to her. All of the nonsense with your feelings aside, she is still your friend and you care about her. A lot. So you groan as you throw off the covers and get out of bed, dressing blindly in jeans and an oversized red hoodie. You don't care how it's almost midnight, you open the door and march into the dimly lit hall, soft carpet under your feet. Oh God, what if her roommate is in the room? What if they're asleep? What if Clarke won't want to see you? No, don't back out. You never back out. That's just who you are.

"Clarke?" You knock on the wooden door and pray that she's not sleeping, that it will be her to open the damn door. "Clarke, please open up."

You stand in the silence of the hall. The silence stillness is so thick you can almost hear your blood running through your veins. Years fly by in your mind, days turning into weeks, turning into months. Your heart is beating like crazy and you don't even know if it's better if she opens the door or if she doesn't. But no, you're not a coward, you're not a coward, you're not a…

"Lexa?" Clarke's in her sleeping shorts and a black tank top, voice hoarse, eyes wide open and surprised. It looks as if she was getting ready to go to bed. You listen intently and you don't hear anyone else shuffling in the room, nor do you hear another voice. She's is probably alone. You hope so at least.

"I'm sorry if this is too forward of me or whatever, I don't really care. But I care about you, Clarke. What happened?" You're afraid. You're afraid that she'll say she's upset over something you've done, something you've said. Or even worse – that she's upset over something you won't be able to fix. You're terrified that you won't be able to make it better, to make her hurt less.

"Come in," Clarke says staring at the ground, opening the door more and gesturing for you to slip in. "Sit down," she points to the bed on the right. The other bed looks as if no one has slept in it for at least a couple of days.

"My roommate works in a bar near campus. Night shifts," she says as she sits down too, noticing your staring at the empty and cold bed.

"I'm sorry I barged in in the middle of the night," you become really self-conscious, looking at anything, just not at Clarke sitting on the bed near you. You're doing your best to avoid her long and bare legs.

"It's fine, Lexa," Clarke's voice is tired. "I'm sorry, I have been a bit antisocial but I'm having serious family problems," she says dryly and avoids your gaze for a bit.

"Oh," is all you manage. Family. Family is judgmental, arrogant, hypocritical. The word leaves a bad aftertaste in your mouth. It's a word that will always make you shiver, your spine tense and your jaw clenched. "It's ok if you don't want to talk about it, I won't pry. I just wanted to say that I'm always here if you want to talk or anything."

You're both silent and you just stare at your hands in your lap. You have no idea what to do. Do you go? Or stay? Say something or stay silent?

"My dad has cancer," Clarke breaks the heavy silence in a deadpan, cold voice and you can't help but finally look at her face. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes more evident than before, eyes sleepy, skin paler than usual. "It's quite ironic when my mom's a doctor," Clarke lets out a short bitter laugh.

You're taken aback. You don't know what to say, how to say it. You don't know how to comfort her, make her feel better. It's the second one, isn't it? You not being able to fix it. How good of a friend are you?

"I'm sorry," you hear your voice crack. "I'm so sorry," you look at Clarke, her blue eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"He still has a pretty good chance though, it's not that bad. But I'm… I'm devastated. It's like I can't function anymore. It's like I don't understand, but understand too well at the same time, you know?" Your hands fiddle in your lap and then you feel Clarke putting her warm hand on your cold one. "I'm sorry for shutting you out; I needed some time for myself. I'm not good at dealing with this kind of stuff."

"We rarely are. I'm sorry I can't even do anything to make you feel better," your voice is raw and sad.

"Lexa," Clarke says strictly as she pulls your hand towards herself. "You're here with me, you care. I appreciate it. I really do. Can you-, can you please just stay with me for a bit? I really need it," she pulls you into a hug and you don't even fight it, you let her.

"It's ok, Clarke," you say as she buries her face in your neck. Her hands soon find your waist, her fingers settle on the skin where your hoodie has risen up, your breath hitches involuntarily. Your arms find their way around her neck. "It's gonna be ok."

You don't believe it yourself.

* * *

Your phone rings and the sound wakes you up immediately. You're so disoriented that you don't even understand what's going on. What time is it? Who's calling you? Maybe it's Clarke? It's been a week since your talk with her and everything seems normal. For now. You two talk, hang out, walk back to the dorms together after copyright law, have lunch with Raven and Octavia just like before. As if nothing happened. Though you do feel this subtle sadness in Clarke's every move, a certain helplessness. It's only natural for her to feel this way. It's just your heart seems to ache whenever you notice it. The ringtone snaps you back to reality. What the hell? You glance at a clock on the wall - 8: 34 AM. It's still early in the morning, why would anyone be calling at such an hour? You reach out for the phone on the nightstand, not even looking at who is calling. Your mistake. You realize it the moment you hear the voice on the other side of the line.

"Good morning, Lexa," your dad's voice echoes in your ears and your mouth flies agape for a second. "You aren't sleeping, are you? It's quite late in the morning."

"Good morning, father," you try to calm down before he hears a quiver in your voice. "I studied late last night and my lectures start at 11, so I decided to get a decent amount of sleep," there is silence. Even if you think it is fine, you really know it isn't. It never is.

"That doesn't mean you can sleep until the middle of the day," his voice is harsh, accusing. You never miss it. You never miss these phone calls. "You always procrastinate."

"I don't, I had a lot of homework recently," you have no idea why he's calling. You never understand why he does that.

"Good then," your dad's voice gets calmer. "Do you like your studies?" He asks.

"I do," you answer. You really do, you've been interested in politics ever since you were little. Your parents were proud of you when you told them you want to study international politics. And you were happy to move away from them. It's not that you don't love them; it's that they are abusive without even noticing it, and it's been draining you ever since you were a child.

"I am glad to hear that. You will have a great career after your studies, won't you?" Your dad asks, and it feels like a threat more than an actual rhetorical question. He succeeds in making you feel uneasy, he always does, even when you're trying to block everything he says and take it for what it is.

"I will. Most definitely," you answer in a monotone.

"Your mother wants to talk to you," he says and gives the phone to your mom. Your mom is even worse; you think that she sometimes thrives on the abusive words, like it's her only outlet, her only chance to talk without thinking.

"Lexa," you hear her voice and swallow hard. "Do I need to remind you that…"

You should have gotten used to it, this abuse. But you realize, that when it comes to family – you can never get used to the mistreatment you're receiving. And so you try your hardest to not throw the phone at a wall. You listen intently, each word piercing your heart deeper and deeper. You should have gotten used to it (you never did). When the call ends, the clock shows 9:41 AM. You just roll over onto your back and stare at the white ceiling. What a great start. Sometimes you want to shatter into pieces, but you know that no one is going to put you back together. You feel absolutely and utterly alone on days like these. Like you're in some kind of a bubble, like there's a wall of glass between you and other people, like you're invisible. Sometimes, you think that burdens like yours can't be understood by a mere mind (however pretentious that may sound). How many times have you been broken? Sad? Been rendered completely useless? Had your friends turn away from you? Had to stand your family's abuse? How many times have you slit your wrists? Fell apart? Were left all alone? How many times had your fist crashed into a wall? How many times have you stared blankly at your own reflection in the mirror and screamed in despair? Too many, too many times.

And sometimes, on days like these, you feel like you don't belong.

* * *

There are days when you think everything is crumbling away at your fingers. Because as humans, we ruin everything we touch, including other people. That's why you sometimes ignore Clarke physically; you avoid any contact with her, her skin. You don't want to ruin her with your tainted touch, your dirty hands, so you carefully push her away when she tries to comfort you or hug you. You haven't told her about your family (among many other things), but you think she understands that there is something very wrong, a deep secret you're trying to keep. For now, she doesn't push it. You try to prolong this for as long as you can; you don't want to lie your burdens upon her shoulders. Both of you are broken for different reasons, by different experiences, but you understand each other well. Most of the time, she gets you when there are no words spoken, when there's dead silence. You like how the both of you can just be listening to music in your dorm room, you reading and Clarke drawing, the silence is never uncomfortable. You figure that you're just no good with words. It's like deep down you know how you feel, but when you try and find the right words – there are none. So you just assume she understands even though it's very selfish of you.

You know she does.

* * *

It's Friday. Another phone call from your dad sends you into a spiraling depression once again. He said he hasn't seen you in quite some time and wants you to get back home for the weekend. Which you protested, and of course, all hell broke loose. Again, the phone call happened in the morning. It's afternoon now, and you are drinking coffee with Clarke at the coffee shop near campus. Still, you can't seem to concentrate, all the words from the call still ringing in your ears.

"Lexa?" Clarke tries. "Are you listening? You're scaring me. What's wrong?"

Everything. Everything is wrong and you can't breathe anymore.

"Do you ever think about the end of the world, Clarke?" Clarke looks at you dumbfounded. "Do you ever think about how fucked up everything is?" Your brain betrays you, spilling words that should have better been unrevealed, unspoken, buried and forgotten. Because they're painful and uncontrollable, to the point of wanting to drown. But Clarke just looks at you as if there's something very wrong with you, like you're broken. You're not, you're not broken. You don't need to be fixed. You're fine, you're fine…

"Lexa, what's wrong?" Clarke pleads. "Please, tell me," she begs, and you think how it would be unnecessary to burden her. But how it would be easier for you, to finally let go, to finally put all the pieces of the puzzle for her. No, not right now. Maybe not ever.

You're not sure why you're playing this game with Clarke. She is sincere and seems to really care about you. Maybe that's what's stopping you. You don't want to worry her, scare her away. Your friendship is still somewhat fragile. No, drowning is the problem of the person who's drowning. Nothing more.

"I'm fine, Clarke," you take a sip of the gone cold coffee and manage a small smile. "I'm just tired."

Clarke's back hits the chair, her eyes never leaving your face, and you just put up a mask. A defense mechanism. You always work on it your free time. It's like sharpening pencils; you never know when you'll need to use it.

In your head, you still think about how fucked up everything is.

* * *

You don't know for how long you've been like this. What time is it? It's dark already? You stand up from the desk you've been sitting at for who knows how long. After spending your afternoon with Clarke, you've returned to your dorm. An image of Clarke's smile floats into your mind. You've only ever embraced her once, and god, now you can't think of any other action you'd want to repeat as many times as that embrace. Whenever you accidentally even graze her skin, electricity surges through your fingertips and you think you've never felt this way before. You seem to notice when she's hurting, even though she's concealing it well. But the mask crumbles, maybe she wants it to crumble sometimes, you don't know, though other people do not seem to notice. Sometimes, she's way too quiet for her usual loud and energetic self, but you don't say anything. She will talk when she wants to; you don't want to force her. You just put on a knowing face and continue doing what you're doing. Your door is always open. Sometimes you hate it. The way there's nothing you can do, the way you don't know what to do, the way you're so uncertain about everything. The image of Clarke is replaced by your father, shaking his head in disapproval, his hurtful words still echoing in your head. You thought things brightened up, you thought everything was going to get better, you thought… You roll up your sleeves and stare at the pink scars. You realize you truly are broken. Tears start streaming down your cheeks and you clutch your scarred forearm. You fall to the floor and cry until you fall asleep on the cold ground.

* * *

The razor kisses your skin and your skin cries in blood. Saturday morning. Or is it Sunday already? You have no idea. You don't really like weekends, there's too much time to think, even if you try to be busy, to get stuff done, you still find your mind wandering. You stare at the new scar which is probably the deepest you've made and sigh. The blood continues to drip down the white sink and you put away the razor. You think about the end of the world again, but there's a knock on the door and it startles you. Who can that be?

"Lexa?" It's Clarke. Oh god, oh god… You grab a cloth and wipe the blood from your forearm, rolling down your sweater's sleeves to cover the new scar. She can't know, she just can't.

"Yeah, just a minute, Clarke," you say as you leave the bathroom and go to open the door, taking a deep breath.

Clarke is dressed in black skinny jeans and a loose white shirt, her hair in a ponytail. She looks tired, but her smile indicates that she probably spent the whole night drawing again. Also, there's a little smudge of paint on her neck. Clarke always had this small smile when she'd stay up late and draw or paint. She has shown you a couple of her creations, all done beautifully. Clarke loved bright colors in her paintings and black and white in her sketches. She'd sketch numerous things and then would make a proper painting, incorporating everything so that it made sense and looked otherworldly. She's brilliant.

"I brought breakfast," Clarke waves a small brown bag as she takes a step forward and hugs you with her free hand.

"Uh, thank you," you stutter as you try to remember the last time you ate. Yesterday? Today?

"It's no big deal, just coffee and sandwiches," Clarke shrugs as she sits down in front of the small table. "You know, I am jealous of your room," she says while taking out the sandwiches and the coffee from the bag.

"Really? Why?" You grab a few napkins from the cupboard and sit down as well.

"One, cause you live alone," Clarke takes a sip of the coffee. "And two, instead of a second bed, you have a proper table with chairs. I always have to eat in front of my computer desk and the crumbles just get everywhere. So yes, I do love this table, even though it is round and not that big," Clarke chews on her favorite sandwich, occasionally taking a sip of the warm liquid.

"True. I like that I have a proper dining table as well," you smile as you take a bite of your sandwich.

"Also, your bed is way bigger than mine," Clarke takes a napkin to her lips to wipe the sauce off. "I'm not even kidding when I say that I fell off the bed a few times," she laughs and then stops dead in her tracks, putting her cup down on the table. "Lexa?" Clarke's voice is weird and you don't understand the sudden change in her tone.

"Yes?" You look at her dumbfounded, not quite understanding what's wrong.

"Your, your hand, Lexa," she says staring at your wrist. "There's blood."

You jump up and stare at your wrist, the blood almost dripping on the rug, but you grab a few napkins and let it absorb the crimson liquid. Clarke jumps up as well and stares at you.

"Lexa," you close your eyes and take a deep breath. "Let me see," she comes at you and carefully takes your fingers. And you are so tired of fighting, and so tired of losing, that you let her carefully roll up the sleeve of your black sweater. Clarke gasps and you feel as if the whole room is sucked out of oxygen. She lets go for a second and you open your eyes in panic. But it seems that Clarke just went to the bathroom to get a towel.

"It's ok, Lexa," she wraps your forearm in a wet towel and looks at you while you avoid her gaze. "It's ok."

Clarke is calm, very calm. You thought she'd yell at you, walk out on you, shout " _What kind of nonsense is this?_ " and leave. But she just calmly wipes the blood and lets it dry, then washes the bloody towel while you sit at the table, staring at your unfinished sandwich. Clarke returns from the bathroom and adjusts the chair to sit closer to you. You sit in silence for a few minutes.

"I am sad, but I won't pry. I don't think I have the right to," she says carefully taking your scarred hand into hers and you just look away. "But I want you to know that I care about you deeply and it hurts me to know that you're in pain," she brings your hand to her lips and kisses near your wrist, where the fresh scar resides. You feel like you'll faint any minute and your heart will jump out of your chest.

"Clarke," you cough a bit to clear your voice. "I, I'm… I'm sorry," you say lamely.

"Don't apologize to me," Clarke smiles a little bit and you feel as if you're drowning. "But please finish your meal, you look as if you haven't eaten anything in a while," you gasp a bit at how easily Clarke reads you.

You eat your sandwich while Clarke finishes her coffee, shooting you a worried look once in a while. There is a small light in the darkness after all.

* * *

You spend almost every day together with Clarke after your lectures and you start feeling better, calmer even. Sometimes, you grab take-out and go to Raven and Octavia's room. Raven still calls everyone in her engineering class an idiot, Octavia still eats too fast and they both hate on their physics lecturer together. Though most of the time, the four of you just laugh until you can't breathe and you think how grateful you are for these people.

Clarke starts visiting you even more. At first, Clarke used to say that she wanted to see you, or that her roommate was studying and she didn't want to disturb her. But now she just knocks on your door and nods slightly when you open up. You know she's worried, but you don't know how to feel about it, it's kind of bittersweet. You like spending time with Clarke, you really do, but you don't want her to feel like this is her duty because it isn't. You don't want her to think that she's in any way responsible for your self-destructive tendencies.

On a Friday night, you both watch a movie on your laptop in your bed. It's a serious drama and both of you are invested, never talking throughout the movie, but occasionally pausing it and discussing it, drinking soda or grabbing another slice of pizza. Clarke's in her sleeping shorts and a black tank top, while you're in loose pajama pants and a white T-shirt. The first thing that Clarke said when you opened the door was " _You have a tattoo?"_ as she stared at your bicep in awe. Having your forearms exposed was painful, and even awkward, at first. But Clarke told you that it's fine while occasionally staring at the tattoo, shifting her eyes to your scars.

"Do you have any other tattoos?" She asks while pausing the movie and reaching out for the pizza in the box, taking another slice. You realize that Clarke _loves_ pizza and you don't blame her. You've always said that pizza was one of the best things in life. When Clarke heard this, she just couldn't help but agree with enthusiasm.

"I do. One more, I have it on my back," you answer. "Do you have any?" You're curious.

"Yeah, but only one though," she says taking a napkin and wiping her hands.

"Clarke," you say looking at her. "You don't need to keep tabs on me, I am not a child," You exhale.

"Is this what you think it is?" Clarke grabs a soda can from the nightstand, takes a gulp and puts it back down again. "I'm not keeping tabs, even though I'm worried. But this is not what it's about – I just really love spending time with you," she says like it's no big deal, but your stomach flutters and feels funny for quite a time, but you try to ignore the feeling, shoo it away.

"You do?" You ask as Clarke gives you an annoyed look.

"I'm not the kind of person to spend time with someone I don't like, Lexa," she says casually. "Shall we get on with the movie? I'm interested in what happens next," her hand hovers over the laptop.

"Of course," you say as Clarke shifts. You pretend that you don't notice how your shoulders brush together.

* * *

You wake up in the middle of the night, confused. It's so dark that you can barely see anything; even the dim light of the moon doesn't help you. Someone stirs besides you, there is a soft tug on your shirt and you realize that both you and Clarke have probably fallen asleep in the bed. Was it after the movie ended? You try to remember the ending in vain. Your head is heavy and you've had quite a difficult week, no wonder you fell asleep.

"Clarke?" You whisper as you partially get up, resting on your elbows, still disoriented. There's dead silence and you think that maybe you've imagined it, hallucinated it.

"Shhh, just go back to sleep Lexa," you hear her groggy voice and you lay back down. Clarke immediately moves closer and lays her head on your shoulder; her hand finds its way on your waist. Clarke is breathing into your neck and it tickles a bit. You find the weight of her body relaxing, her breath soothing. You carefully embrace her, and Clarke just nuzzles into your neck, which draws a laugh from your lips.

"It tickles," you're sleepy, eyes staring at the ceiling and trying to adjust to the darkness.

"Lexa, for God's sake, shut up and go back to sleep," Clarke says playfully and laughs, never even opening her eyes. "Don't make me get up," she warns.

"Don't threaten me in my bed, Griffin," you pinch her lightly and she jumps up, gasping.

"I'm taking revenge on you. First thing in the morning," she brushes her nose along your neck and you gulp.

"Bring it on," you say as you embrace Clarke tighter. Her hand finds its way under your shirt and rests on your bare stomach. You smile as you close your eyes and drift off to sleep, little by little, step by step.

The darkness opens up your wounds and she closes them again. The daily struggle.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the nice reviews, I really love reading them. I am genuinely happy that you like my story so much. I hope you will like this chapter. Enjoy :)**

You awake to warmth encompassing you, head still sleepy, slowly waking from a dreamless sleep. You don't remember the last time you slept so well; you're used to sleeping for 4 hours a day, the quality of your sleep still terrible even then. Sleep was never comforting, at least not in the sense that it was to others. You considered it as a few hours when you couldn't think and feel, when you felt a small victory against the world and its pretenses. But you always woke up tired, you're in the constant state of exhaustion that sleep probably just couldn't fix anymore. That's why you despised it. Though today was different, you feel content even if your mind still craves sleep. You feel comfortable, soft and as you sigh, you embrace the source of warmth even tighter, not fully realizing what it is yet.

"Lexa," Clarke giggles. "You're kind of squishing me," she says in a hoarse voice and you can't help but love it. Clarke's voice is husky and beautiful, even if she recited an engineering textbook, you'd never get bored of that voice. A thought of how you'd like for every morning to be like this flies by and disappears, leaving little footprints in your hazy mind.

A second later you finally comprehend what position you are in and it is as if the whole room is suddenly out of air. You're lying on your left side, face buried in Clarke's chest, both of your legs intertwined, Clarke's hands are under your shirt, on the small of your back. It should feel weird; it should feel compromising, awkward. But it isn't, it just feels strangely normal and comfortable and _so right_. Something flutters in your stomach. You know that both of you are dancing towards something here, but you don't want to get your hopes up. Not yet at least. Not when you're still so unsure.

"Good morning," you mutter. Your mind is not yet awake and you feel like you could sleep so much more. More minutes, more hours. It's as if all of the exhaustion started pouring out of you slowly but surely. You're sleepy, but not as tired as you always are in the early hours of the day.

"Good morning, Lexa," you hear Clarke say. "Have you slept well?"

"I have. But I'm sorry I fell asleep," you mumble into Clarke's chest, never opening your eyes and tightening your grip on her bare waist. Clarke's black tank top has ridden up as well as your white T-shirt, so now you're skin to skin, stomach to stomach. It feels electric.

"I didn't really notice until your head fell on my shoulder," she laughs. "I was so invested in the movie," Clarke's hands start drawing some kind of designs on your back and you shiver. Her hands are warm against your cold skin and her touch feels like fire.

"Did it end well? I really can't remember the ending. By the way, what time is it?" You say and a yawn escapes your mouth.

"It did, the ending was good. A bit sad, but good, it gave closure. And it's 9:04 AM, still quite early," she answers yawning as well, her body tensing for a few seconds.

"Can I sleep a bit more?" You ask as Clarke laughs and there's a small vibration in her chest. "I still feel sleepy."

"Of course you can, Lexa," you embrace Clarke again, your abs tensing as her stomach presses warmly into your skin, her hands travelling up your back to rest just above your black bra. "Is this, is this ok?" She asks somewhat uncertainly, and you think that you've never heard Clarke so insecure before. This was something new, a new territory.

"Yes. It is," your hands encompass her waist even tighter, hugging her skin and bones, noticing how well your hips fit against hers. Like pieces of two different puzzles.

"What about your boyfriend?" Clarke asks unsure. "I mean, my roommate said she saw you hanging out with this guy at the bar and," she begins to ramble and it makes you smile.

"I don't have one," you reassure her with a simple statement.

"Oh… Alright then," Clarke's breathing becomes more even, calmer as well. "Sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."

"I'll take your word for it," you say against her chest.

You drift off into a dreamless sleep again, realizing for the first time in god knows how many months, that your morning might just be all right.

* * *

The smell of coffee wakes you up. You feel the absence of warmth in your bed, so you slowly peel one eye open. You see Clarke sipping coffee, holding the mug with two hands and reading a magazine. Her hair, the golden waves frame her face perfectly. She scrunches her face a bit and you can't help but smile at how cute she looks.

"Good morning again, beautiful," Clarke says, not even looking at you. Before you can even ask how she knew you're awake, she continues. "I noticed the stirring."

"Good morning," you yawn and stretch. From the corner of your eye, you notice Clarke staring at your bare stomach. You slowly untangle yourself from the blanket around your body and get up. "You could have mentioned you know how to read minds, I'd be more careful," you say as you sit down beside Clarke at the small round dining table.

You notice the huge pot of coffee on the table, the fruit and pastries that you both bought yesterday for breakfast. You grab an empty mug from the table and pour yourself some hot coffee. As you bring the cup to your lips, you can't help but to notice how breathtaking Clarke is in the morning. Well, she always is, but there's just something about the way she looks in morning light. Her messy hair, the muscles of her shoulders, the length of her bare legs, the blissful smile on her face and-

"See something you like?" You hear Clarke say and your cheeks heat up as she giggles.

"You're such a tease, Clarke," she giggles again. "When did you wake up?"

"About 20 minutes ago," Clarke says as she takes a look at the clock on the wall, then brings the mug to her lips and takes a small sip of the drink.

You both sit in silence for a while, Clarke's still reading the magazine while you eat breakfast and drink coffee. You can't help but notice how nice it is. Finally having a good night's sleep, eating a normal breakfast, having someone to wake up with…

"Lexa?" Clarke's voice snaps you back, but you don't realize it yet. "Lexa?" Clarke tries again.

"Yeah?" You look at her. "Sorry, I was thinking," you spark her interest right away.

"About what?" She puts the magazine aside and asks you, picking up a croissant from the plate in front of her.

"That this is nice," your voice trembles a bit as you stare at the dark liquid in the mug.

"It is," you take a look at Clarke as she gives you a warm smile and takes a bite of the croissant.

You finish drinking coffee at the same time as Clarke finishes eating. You stand up to wash your mug in the sink, but Clarke stands up as well and you feel a bit confused. She comes closer and takes the mug right out of your hands, places it back on the table. You gulp as you hear your pulse pounding in your head.

"I said I'll take revenge. And revenge is a dish best served cold," Clarke tackles you and you both fall on your bed, still warm. You struggle, but it's futile as she lifts up your shirt a bit and grabs your waist, her hands icy cold.

"What the fuck?" You squeal as Clarke pins you down and you can't move, you desperately try to shove her hands away, but her grip is unrelenting. "Why are your hands so fucking cold?"

"It's because I chilled the mug that I was holding," Clarke laughs as you try to wriggle your way out. "I tricked you into thinking I was drinking coffee when it was like super cold water."

"You're like a criminal mastermind, you're dangerous," you can't help but to notice how cunning and smart Clarke was and how she played you. You're really impressed.

"Am I really?" Clarke lowers herself and puts her head on your chest, her cold hands never leaving the skin of your waist, stroking it gently.

"No," you say simply.

Neither of you say anything else; you just hold each other tight in a mess of limbs and hair.

* * *

You and Clarke are in a weird phase. You like each other. " _Quite blatantly_ " Raven once stated. Octavia said that you both need to get it on before you go crazy or drive Raven and Octavia crazy. The thing is that you don't know how to act. It's like a game of who breaks, who makes the first move. You're not afraid; you're just insecure and not sure. You have never talked about relationships or what they mean to you. What if it's just having a bit of fun to Clarke? No, you don't believe it to be so. Either way, you're grateful that Clarke seems to know how to comfort you in just the right way, never pushing and asking too much. You're grateful, but you never tell her. She knows it. It's an exchange really. You comfort her as well, when she's fighting her own demons, her own battles, her own nightmares. You just usually hold her hand and never say a word.

Silence is golden.

* * *

It's Wednesday and the both of you decide to see a movie in a theater. You invited Raven and Octavia, but they were both busy with their physics homework (" _I hate this professor_ " Octavia screamed at the phone while Raven groaned in the background). Does it make this a date? Is this a date? Like a proper date? You have no idea. You've spent so much time together with Clarke that you're not sure you even need a date. You watch movies in your room, you go grab coffee together, but you've never really went out somewhere. Is going out to the movies considered a date? No? Yes? Your head just starts hurting from overthinking. This is probably just a friendly outing. No, this sounds silly. But does it? You overthink as you dress and you get a text from Clarke, saying that she's waiting outside. You speed up and practically run to the door, not quite understanding why Clarke is not waiting in the hall like always.

"Hey," you hear Clarke say and you turn your head. Clarke's in a brown skirt that rests above her knees, but not too short, with a white sleeveless blouse with a cute black embroidered design. You lose the ability to speak for a few seconds. "Let's go?" She asks, and you look at her dumbfounded.

"Wait, why are we going to the parking lot?" You ask confused, but follow her nevertheless.

"Becauuuse, Raven let me borrow her car," she waves the car keys and laughs a bit. "Come on!" Clarke yells excitedly.

"Raven let you borrow it?" You ask because you can't believe that Raven would do that. The point is that Raven talks about her car almost as much as she:

a) Talks about Finn;

b) Calls everyone in her engineering class an idiot;

c) Complains about her physics professor with Octavia.

"She did," Clarke opens the door for you as she smiles. "Right after she made a few inappropriate jokes that I had to withstand, but all is good," she says as she gets behind the wheel and starts up the engine.

"But it's not really that far, Clarke," you say as you put on the seatbelt. "We could've taken the bus."

"I wanted to pick you up, I wanted a proper date with you," Clarke says as she carefully drives out of the parking lot of your dorms.

You feel nervous and as you glance towards Clarke, you can see that she is as well. She keeps tapping her fingers on the wheel and looking at you every five seconds.

"I feel like I'm underdressed for a date," you say as you stare at your lap. White sneakers, black skinny jeans and a simple black T-shirt. The evening was weirdly warm for an autumn one, but you don't complain. You're just glad you don't need to dress up in three layers of clothing, at least not yet. Still, you would have dressed a bit differently had you known.

"No, you're not. You look perfect," Clarke says, staring at the road. You wonder if she understands what these words mean to you.

"You look… I can't even find the right word for it," you try. "You look stunning, Clarke."

"Thank you," Clarke turns her head and smiles at you. You lace your fingers together over the gearbox.

* * *

The movie was great, you leave the theater chatting cheerfully, discussing the plot and the events of the movie. You talk about the characters, and as Clarke says she liked the tattoo of this one character, you remember something. You ask to see her tattoo, which she has mentioned before, but you have no idea where, nor what is it. Clarke smirks and just pushes her skirt a bit down, lifting her blouse up a touch, and your mouth flies agape for a second before you compose yourself. The tattoo on her hip is a small array of every planet in the solar system. It's simple, but beautiful. As she starts explaining the meaning and when she got it, you smile at her story. She smiles back.

"But that was stupid, what he did there, wasn't it?" You ask as you and Clarke slowly walk back to the car.

"Oh god, it was," the blonde laughs. "Reminds me a bit of this thing I did way back when I was a freshman, though it's not related to what he did in the movie."

"Really?" You're intrigued. "Do tell, Clarke," you lightly nudge her with your elbow.

"Well," she starts. "This one time, I wanted to send a paper plane to this guy I was briefly crushing on. I don't really remember what I wrote exactly, something funny and not to the point I guess. I was in my literature class and when I threw it, the paper plane hit this girl, because apparently, my aim is terrible. So she read it and interpreted the message as something offensive, and after class, she threatened me. But Raven interfered and saved my ass. It appears she was an acquaintance of Raven or something. Raven saved me, and that's how we became friends," Clarke laughs, tears in her eyes.

"Our one and only, our lord and savior - Raven Reyes," you laugh and your stomach starts hurting. "But that was kind of stupid, you never knew who you'd hit."

"I know, right?" Clarke continues to laugh. "For some reason, I thought it would land gracefully on that guy's desk and I'd look cool, but the paper plane hit that girl right in the head," she giggles.

The both of you pause and stand on the sidewalk because you can't stop laughing. Your stomach is hurting so much and your lungs are not getting enough oxygen. Clarke's laugh echoes in your ears and your stomach flutters when you think how beautiful she is. Once you calm down, (after 5 minutes or so) you reach the car and stand quite awkwardly, not sure what to do. Clarke is weirdly awkward too, going silent as she starts smoothing her skirt, but then she looks at you, eyes full of determination of some sort.

"I'm going to do something stupid now," she whispers as she takes a step forward, and you feel weak in the knees.

"It's not stupid, Clarke," you whisper against her soft lips.

Her kiss is tender and careful, she doesn't push, but you are still somewhat caught off guard, so you don't react right way. You're afraid she will pull away, so you reciprocate because you want to, because you have nothing to lose, because she is everything you crave. You stand in a half-empty parking lot and she kisses you like there's no tomorrow. Your brain shuts down because you can't comprehend that this is happening. You never thought you wanted something like this so much. Clarke captivated you since the moment you first saw her. The moment the sun hit her hair and turned it into a golden crown. The moment she returned your forgotten notebook. Clarke turns her head a bit, adjusts the angle, her tongue tracing your bottom lip as you oblige and open your mouth. Her tongue slips in as she wraps her hands tightly around your waist, slipping them under the hem of your black T-shirt. You gently cup her warm cheek as your other hand finds its way on the small of her back.

You stand in a half-empty parking lot and realize that it's easier to breathe.

* * *

"I'm just worried that yesterday you kissed me back on reflex," she says in the corridor as you walk her to her drawing class.

"I don't kiss people I don't want to kiss," you reassure her, stopping to prove your point before fixing your white button up shirt. "I don't kiss people if I don't mean it. I'm not that kind of person," you tell her.

"I really like you," Clarke says and stares at the ground for a bit, then adjusts her loose white shirt. "I don't want to ruin it, I really don't."

"You won't. I'm sure of that," you smile and Clarke looks at you, smiling as well when she takes your hand in hers. You notice Raven in the corridor, so you wave to her. She comes closer and hugs the both of you at once. Raven is in her signature red bomber jacket and there's a smirk on her face.

"I see that the date went well," Raven says as she looks at your intertwined hands. "I'm so proud of you two," she pretends to wipe tears off of her face.

"Raven, you're like the dad of the group," Clarke says as the three of you make way to your classes.

"I do make all the dad jokes and always embarrass you, so that's fair I guess," Raven laughs.

You chat, saying that you'll definitely have lunch tomorrow, the four of you together. You briefly talk some more about what's been going on, before Raven says how proud she is that Clarke returned her car in one piece. To which Clarke protests by saying she is quite a good driver. You just laugh at their constant bickering. You walk a bit more before you stop in front of Clarke's auditorium.

"Ok, I'm off to this boring as hell class. See you later?" She kisses your cheek and you nod weakly. Raven just curiously observes.

"What about me?" Raven pretends to frown as Clarke walks away.

"In your dreams, Reyes," she shouts and then she's gone the next second, closing the door.

"Well that was rude," Raven laughs and turns to you. "So Lexa, tell me about the date," she wiggles her eyebrows as she throws her hand around your shoulders, and you burst out laughing.

You try not to smile too much while talking about your date, but you overdo it and Raven just asks what happened and why you're so grumpy.

* * *

You don't see Clarke until late in the evening. You're just finishing your essay when there's a knock on the door and Clarke storms right in. You don't even manage to ask what's wrong before Clarke grabs you and slams you against the wooden door she just closed, her lips latching onto yours. You feel intoxicated, drunk. There's a hunger in her dilated pupils that you've never seen yet. Her hands find their way to your collar and start unbuttoning your shirt frantically.

"Clarke?" You ask her.

"I just, I just really want you," She says. "I can't stop thinking about you, and your skin, and how I want to make you scream my name."

You feel fire in your lower stomach as you give in to the hunger, grabbing Clarke's waist, pulling her closer, your hands slipping under the hem of her shirt, massaging the soft skin there. Her breath hitches.

"Lexa, your hands are cold," Clarke complains as she undoes the last button and parts your shirt, taking in the sight in front of her. Clarke looks like a child who just unwrapped her Christmas present, her eyes are full of adoration and raw hunger.

"Get used to it," you say as your hands travel higher and higher until they are on her breasts, your mouth sucking in Clarke's lower lip. Clarke moans a bit.

"Oh I will," she shudders and you return your hands to the hem of her shirt, discarding the material and throwing it somewhere on the floor. The desk lamp casts its pale light as you and Clarke try to shed your clothing.

Clarke pushes the shirt off of your shoulders, watching as it falls down with a soft thud. Her hands then tentatively travel to the button of your skinny jeans. She undoes the button with ease and then unzips your pants. Clarke leans down to pull them off of your long legs as you kick off your socks. You stand in the middle of the semi-dark room, clad only in your black bra and underwear, your skin exposed to the cool air of the room.

"God, you're so fucking hot," Clarke says as she grabs your hips and guides you towards the bed, kissing you again. You fall into the bed with Clarke on top of you, her hips bracketing your thighs. Clarke gently caresses your cheek and then buries her other hand in your long, wild and wavy hair. You look at her pale skin and realize you need so much more, you _want_ so much more.

"You're overdressed, Clarke," you say as you sit up and reach to unhook her dark blue bra, doing so in one swift motion and throwing it on the floor where the rest of your clothes are. She then gently grabs your shoulders and softly lays you down, pinning both of your hands on either side of your head gingerly.

"Patience, pretty girl," she grazes your lips with hers, teasing you with her tongue. Clarke then unhooks your black bra as her mouth kisses the valley between your breasts. She expertly takes off your underwear and then sits back on her knees.

"I have never seen a girl more beautiful than you. I'm in awe," she says quietly, but with so much passion. "You're the most breathtaking person I ever laid my eyes upon."

Clarke then unzips her own jeans as she strips the rest of her clothing completely. She lies down on top of you.

"You're more beautiful than I ever imagined," you say as your hands hungrily touch the skin now available to you. Her hands are ghosting over every curve of your body, her lips kissing your skin and leaving a trail of fire in the process. Her slim and talented fingers find their way to where you need them most, making you inhale sharply.

Even with your eyes closed, you still see the stars.

* * *

You wake up in the early hours of the day and realize it's not even dawn yet. Clarke's naked body is pressed up against your back, spooning you. Your muscles are deliciously sore as you recall just what you did a few hours ago. Your body shifts a bit and you feel Clarke possessively tighten her grip on your waist.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" She kisses your shoulder slowly and you smile.

"I randomly woke up," you say as you shift again, turning to face Clarke, her eyes closed. "Let's go back to sleep, Clarke," you say groggily.

"Yeah," Clarke yawns as her hand travels the length of your back and you burrow yourself into her warm body. "Who knew you're such a bottom though."

"Shut up, Clarke," you groan and pretend to be angry while you wrap your arms around her.

"Easy there, babe," she laughs and it is the last thing you hear before you fall asleep again.

* * *

She kisses you every day at least once. She kisses you when you're upset, when you're happy. She kisses you no matter what just to show how much she needs you.

"Why are you doing this?" You ask one day as you both lie in bed naked, your back turned to Clarke, her head propped on her hand.

"Because I'm committed, because I accept you no matter what," she whispers carefully in her husky voice. "There are so many reasons of why I'm doing this, but does it really matter?" She asks as she caresses your bicep.

"I guess not," you say with your eyes closed, blissfully tired from what you and Clarke have been doing for the past few hours.

"This is beautiful," Clarke traces the tattoo on your back.

"I got it on my 20th birthday. I wanted to get myself something that lasted."

"Will you tell me what it means?" Clarke asks as you turn to her. "I want to know."

"I will. One day," you reach out and touch her face; she brings her lips closer to yours. "I promise, Clarke," you whisper against her mouth.

You let her kiss you again; enjoying the feeling of her tender lips and gentle hands.

* * *

Clarke. She's good. She's great. She knows what to say and how to say it. She's brave, braver than you, and for once you are glad because your confidence has shattered a long time ago. It's fast and at the same time, the pace is slow. It's good because you both seem in no rush. You feel grateful. Everything is funny and cheesy and somewhat easygoing, but you don't care, not really. She smiles and smirks, makes you laugh. She also touches you the way you need and makes you feel wanted. She gives you comfort and you tell her that everything will be alright. That's how the both of you survive.

Things are by no means pretty, you're difficult and stubborn, self-destructive and melancholic, but she gives you a chance and you take it, you don't look back. She's patient, she's willing to take a gamble, and that's what is pushing you forward. That is enough for you. It's new, and it's terrifying, but you try not to overthink it.

* * *

Clarke's in your room. She's frantic, and all over the place while searching for her things, as you calmly drink coffee and review the material for the test you'll have in a few hours.

"Where the fuck is my drawing stuff?" She mutters and you point to the chair besides you, where her bag with supplies lies.

"Thank you," she smiles and takes the bag, opens it and checks if everything she needs is in there.

"You're a bit distracted. Is everything ok?" You ask Clarke.

"Yeah, I'm good, just nervous. We'll have to draw a model in class. I need to run or I'll be late. Bye," she says as goes through the door. She returns a second later only to grab her phone on the nightstand. "Sorry," Clarke apologizes.

She disappears through the door again and you hear footsteps as she returns once more.

"Really? Again? What is it this time that you forgot?" You joke, but Clarke just places a soft kiss on your lips and smiles.

"You," she says. "You look so beautiful, I wanted to kiss you," the blonde whispers and then she's gone the next second.

You sit by the dining table, frozen for a couple of minutes. She really is something, huh?


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey guys, hope you'll like this chapter. I appreciate all of the encouraging and nice words and wanted to thank you for giving this story a shot. Also, thank you for the comments and the kudos, they mean a lot.**  
 **Shoutout to my friend Will once again for editing this because I have the attention span of a fish and am really inattentive.**

* * *

"Clarke?" You ask. "Where the hell are you? You're never late, I'm worried," you say to the voice mail and put the phone down on the table. You can't concentrate on the presentation you're doing, so you just blankly stare at your laptop screen for a while, trying to collect your thoughts.

Clarke is running 20 minutes late to your Friday movie night and it is really weird because she's never late for anything. She doesn't look like it, but she is extremely punctual. You think that Clarke broke some kind of stereotype, that all artsy people always have their head in the clouds and are always late because of that. Also, that they're spaced out and talk about things no one understands. But Clarke wasn't like that one bit. She was practical, and even if she'd spend more time thinking than an average human being, it was never to a disadvantage. She was always precise with everything that involved time, be it deadlines or meetings, so you are worried. A lot. Hundreds of different scenarios run through your mind. What if something happened to her? What if she got into an accident? What if she doesn't want so see you anymore? What if, what if…

10 minutes pass, as you contemplate every possible scenario ever, before you hear the ringtone of your phone, grabbing the device hurriedly and almost dropping it on the floor. You curse as you readjust the phone in your hand.

"Hey, Lexa, hello," Clarke says entirely out of breath, and then pauses. "I'm sorry I'm late," you can hear her walking very fast in the background.

"Did something happen?" You're concerned for her. "Are you ok?" You can't help but ask.

"I'm fine, I'm just-" she stops and tries to catch her breath. "I had to borrow Raven's car again. To drive my dad to the hospital," Clarke explains. And your heart stops.

"Oh my god, is he ok? Why didn't you tell me?" You jump up from the chair and start pacing. It's an old habit of dealing with the stress.

"I didn't know. He called me in the afternoon and asked if I could drive him because he got a doctor's note. The doctor decided to put him in the hospital so he can start getting treatment. He's having a surgery first, in a few days," Clarke rushes her words and you wonder how difficult it should have been for her, dealing with all of this.

"No, no no, everything is fine; don't be sorry, it's a really important matter. I imagine that you didn't even have a free minute to breathe properly," you comfort Clarke. "How is he feeling?"

"I'm still sorry, but yeah. He's terrified, I'm terrified. We're all terrified to be honest. It's just the way it is I suppose. But he's glad he's getting treatment at last, mom and I are a bit relieved as well. The sooner they start the better. Though I'll be back really late, like 1 AM or something like that, but can I still crawl into your bed?" She asks. "I'm exhausted, like beyond tired. I feel like I'm on autopilot."

"Of course you can," you state. You feel sorry for Clarke. "I'll just probably be asleep by then," the guilt settles into your stomach. You haven't seen her today and you want to, but also you didn't sleep very well and feel sleepy.

You think that it's good that Clarke's hometown is only about an hour away, she can visit her parents more often. Clarke mostly spends her Sundays at home now; she wants to spend more time with her parents, be there for her dad. You, on the other hand, have to take a 3 hour trip by a train to visit your parents. Still, you don't feel sad because of that. You wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere, where your dysfunctional family couldn't get you and wouldn't be able to ask you come see them often. It's rather freeing being far away from home; you avoid it at all cost. You never understood people saying that home is the most important place in their lives; you never understood what was so great about a place where abusive words were thrown at you so casually. It was only after some time that you realized– everyone's got a different story and a different home to return to. Not you though. You're not sure you can even call it home, you've never felt like it was your safe place to begin with.

"Lexa?" Clarke sounds nervous, as if treading carefully, testing the waters.

"Yeah? Is something wrong?" You stop pacing and cough a bit because your voice doesn't sound right, your throat goes dry in an instant.

"I showed my dad a picture of you. He said that my girlfriend is gorgeous and that I don't deserve her," you can feel Clarke smiling, even though you don't see her, but you just know.

"He said that?" You smile as well. "Well, he's right, isn't he? Besides, you've never asked me to be your girlfriend in the first place," you laugh as you complain jokingly.

"You're mine," the blonde says calmly and it makes your head spin. "All mine," the confidence in her voice is astounding. You've never heard her being so possessive.

"Yours," you repeat slowly, seeing how the words feel when your mouth says them. "Yours."

You don't tell Clarke, but you like the way it sounds. Being hers.

* * *

After the phone call, you've made some popcorn and you've watched the movie by yourself. Your room felt somewhat weird without the loud blonde. You liked having Clarke around, being with her, kissing her. She made you feel like you belong, like you're lovable. Clarke made you feel that you deserve the world, that you're beautiful, smart, kind. She'd whisper sweet nothings in your ear just before falling asleep. She made you forget about all the fucked up things in your life. You felt better; you haven't taken a blade to your skin for weeks now.

You changed into your pajamas and got into the bed, ready to sleep. You left the door unlocked for Clarke to get in. At about 2 AM, Clarke returns from her trip. You wake up to the sound of the door closing, not because she isn't being quiet, but because you're a light sleeper. Though you weren't really sleeping, it's more like a state between being awake and asleep. Clarke shuffles in the dark as you hear her bag being flopped carefully on one of the chairs. She then silently undresses herself; you see her figure in the dark. After a few minutes, she gets under the covers of your bed. You turn and change your position so you lie on your back now. Clarke readjusts and puts her head on your chest; her warm hands find your waist and caress the skin there.

"I'm sorry I woke you up," she mumbles. "I really tried to be quiet," you hear her yawn.

"It's ok," you yawn as well. "I couldn't really sleep, I was worried," you confess as you wrap your arms around Clarke tightly.

"Sorry," she apologizes again and nuzzles into your chest. "Today was just… I don't even know. It was insane. I don't remember being this tired, ever."

"I'm sorry you had a bad day," you say as you soothe her tense back gently, rubbing small circles on her soft skin.

"Well, at least my girlfriend can comfort me," she smiles into your chest.

"Your girlfriend? And here I thought you were single. Damn it," you joke and Clarke lets out a little raspy laugh. A few minutes pass, and you think that Clarke has fallen asleep until you feel movement from under the covers.

"Mine," she grabs your hips possessively and kisses your chest once. "Mine," Clarke repeats and kisses your chest again.

"Yours," you embrace Clarke tighter as you relax, your fingers against her warm skin.

Before you fall asleep, you think about how you have finally found the definition of the word _home_. And it's two arms that are always waiting for you and embracing you tightly in the time of need.

* * *

When you wake up on a Saturday morning, Clarke is already gone. You can't help but become confused as to why she woke up so early when she got back so late. You figure that maybe Clarke had some errands to run, so you make a light breakfast, drink some coffee and flip through a magazine, all distracted. You're still in your pajamas, reading an article about a healthy lifestyle, when the handle of the door turns. After 20 minutes Clarke has returned and is now grinning widely.

"What is this?" You stare at Clarke's grin suspiciously, then at the colorful array of flowers in her hands.

"Well, I wanted to properly ask you," Clarke laughs and then extends her hand with the beautiful bouquet. "Take them, these are for you."

"Thank you," you say and Clarke laughs at your confusion. "I still have no idea what's going on, Clarke. But these are very beautiful," you find a vase, and the whole room just lights up when you put the flowers in the middle of the small round table.

Clarke doesn't say anything, just slowly approaches you and takes your hand into hers.

"I said that I wanted to ask you properly," she says and brings your hand to her lips. "So, Lexa, will you be my girlfriend?" Clarke smiles and you roll your eyes.

"You're an idiot, do you know that?" You shove her a bit with your free hand and laugh.

"So is that a yes?" Clarke wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

"It is," you laugh again and Clarke kisses you lightly.

"So now that you're officially my girlfriend, I want to officially make you mine," her hands bring you closer to her and start exploring your body, her fingers in search of skin.

Clarke kisses you fiercely and you reciprocate with the same fierceness in return. She looks at you like you put the stars in the sky, and you can't help but to think that she _is_ the sky, and you're the ground - always reaching out for each other. Her hands travel to the hem of your white T-shirt, which is then discarded, and your hands travel to her leather jacket. Her nails dig into your hips and you inhale sharply as Clarke navigates you towards the bed. Her tongue is in your mouth as the both of you shed the remaining clothing. You like this somewhat possessive side of Clarke. At least you're not complaining.

"Mine," Clarke bites your collarbone and you moan, electricity surging through your body.

"Mine," her nails rake your ribs and dance on your skin as you struggle to breathe.

"Mine," she says as her fingers hit just the right spot and you grab the bedsheets, your knuckles white.

"Mine," Clarke whispers into the hollow of your neck at your release and you realize that bliss has never ever been so sweet.

Clarke's head finds its way on your stomach. She kisses your navel and embraces your hips, staying like that for a while. You both spend the day in bed, rediscovering one another.

* * *

You knew that it was only a matter of time. That everything was too good to be true. Life is never like that, right?

And you were fine. You were fine until you weren't.

* * *

A week passes. It's Sunday evening and you can't figure out what is this thing that you're feeling. Until the phone rings that is. Then you realize that you already know who it is, it's been too long. Your whole day felt weird, as if something was about to happen. You felt it right after you woke up, as if the storm was coming. What's worse is that Clarke took the bus and went to visit her dad in the hospital, so you were left alone with this strange sensation. You called Octavia, but she said that she's spending her weekend at Lincoln's, and Raven is at Finn's. With no other option, you sat down to read a book you wanted to finish before the week began. When the phone rang you finally understood what the feeling was about. What if you just ignored it? Muted it? Pretended you never got the call? Said that you can't talk? Anything. But you knew that you couldn't escape it. You brace yourself as you answer the call.

"Yes, dad, I'm listening," you hear yourself say in a dead, emotionless voice.

"Hello, Lexa. How are you doing? You never call or ask how we're doing. Your mother and I miss you greatly," he says sadly.

"I, I miss you too," you say guilty. "I'm just really busy with all the assignments," you lie.

"Are you doing alright? How's university?" Your dad asks.

"Difficult, lots of things to do," you take a glance at the window and notice the dark clouds. Maybe there will be a storm after all.

"I hope you're not being a slacker," he laughs. "Either way, I know you'll manage."

"Thank you, I will," you hear the rain start outside; heavy drops against the glass. "Was there something you wanted?" You look at the window and wonder where Clarke is and what she's doing. You don't remember her taking an umbrella.

"No, not really, just wanted to ask how you're doing. Your mother wants to chat though," you freeze at his words and a feeling of uneasiness washes over you. For a second, you feel like you're going to throw up. Mom always has a way to push all of your buttons.

"Hello, Lexa, I hope you're doing fine," you hear your mom's voice in less than a minute and you already dread it. "But you really should call more often. Your dad misses you greatly, and you never even call him. You're acting a bit ungrateful; you never call to ask us how we're doing," she says casually.

"Well if you wouldn't put me down for every small detail, I would probably call more often," you've had enough of her constant nagging.

"You know we love you," your mom says trying to guilt-trip you. "We just want what's the best for you. And if we don't call, you'd never call us yourself."

"I know, I love you too, but at the same time, you're being toxic at times and I feel better being here. I feel like suffocating whenever I'm home, I can't relax there," you say, anger rising up slowly, bubbling right near the edge.

"Your depressive personality and always being unhappy with everything doesn't make it easier for us," your mom's voice is ice cold and a chill runs down your spine.

"Yeah, probably because I am depressed," you say sarcastically. "It's the depression. You know, a serious mental illness that I have,"

"It's because you have way too much free time to overthink everything. It's all in your head," she says coldly. "Always the suffering one, the unhappy one. Nobody likes sad people. You don't even try to get better, you enjoy being a mess because everyone then just worries about you. But who am I to tell you that, you never want to listen anyway. Bye, I hope you have a great day," she plays the passive aggressive card and hangs up.

You just stand in the middle of the room, frozen. You didn't want to falter, but you did.

* * *

Clarke finds you in the corner of the room, near the wardrobe and the bookshelf. She's soaking from the heavy rain outside, staining the carpet with dark spots.

"Lexa?" Her eyes are wide when they find you on the floor, curled into a ball, your back against the cold wall, your head in your hands. You don't reply, you don't really hear her. "Oh god, what happened?"

You want to tell her, you do, but you're not sure. It's not just your parents, not entirely, it's all the negativity you carry around all the time, it's the self-hate, the self-loathing, it's this terrible excess baggage that is tied to your ankles like an anchor. Clarke doesn't deserve this; she has her hands full already. She doesn't need more of this, she doesn't. Not Clarke, not her.

"Clarke, just make it stop, please," you plead her, rocking back and forth with tears streaming down your face, cursing yourself for being so weak.

"Lexa, what's wrong?" She asks and you start crying even harder because you just don't know what to do and what to say.

"I don't- I have pulled the trigger on this awful truth, Clarke," you say as you wipe your face, but more tears appear. "I want it to stay buried," your voice is quiet as the storm outside rages.

"You haven't buried it if it still makes you suffer," Clarke says softly and kneels in front of you. "I know there's something very wrong, but I want to know," she takes a deep breath.

"You have enough to worry about," your voice breaks a little. "I don't want to burden you."

"I want to know," Clarke's voice is serious as she repeats the words. "I want to know what's wrong. Not because I'm curious, it's because I care, Lexa. Jesus Christ, I care about you so much; I can't deal with you being this upset."

Your tears dry on your cheeks and you finally let go of your head. Clarke takes your hands in hers and you just stare at your left forearm, all in scars. You don't even know how many of the vertical lines are there. These cuts start lower than the base of your wrist and end higher than your elbow. You never know the exact number, you make new ones, they heal and disappear among other. Then the cycle repeats itself. Nobody notices, nobody's counting them.

"Lexa?" She snaps you out of it and you meet Clarke's blue and concerned eyes.

"I don't know, Clarke," you say, trembling. "I don't want to ruin us."

"You won't," she says knowingly as she shivers, rainwater pooling on the floor.

"How can you be sure?" You question because you can't believe Clarke's words.

"Because I am. Because I know I need you," she explains simply.

You just stare at her blue eyes and realize it's better to drown in them rather than your own doubt.

* * *

Clarke helps you up and you curse yourself for being so oblivious and self-centered. The blonde smiles as she shivers and clatters her teeth and you realize that she didn't have an umbrella when the rain caught up with her. She also spent a fair amount of time snapping you out of the negativity, thus why she's freezing.

You reach out for the lapels of her leather jacket and carefully remove the wet garment from her shoulders. It plops on the floor. You grab the hem of her grey T-shirt and try to discard it as well, even though it's sticking to her pale skin. The both of you are silent in the dark of the room, heavy clouds making it hard to see. Clarke unzips her own pants, and then she's standing in the middle of the room in only her semi-wet bra and underwear. Her hands are around her waist, rubbing the cold skin, trying to contain at least some of the warmth. You take a step closer and kiss her, taking her hands into yours carefully, flinching a bit at the cold but never letting go. You take a step forward again and Clarke's eyebrows furrow as she takes a step back, her lips never leaving yours. Your hand travels up to caress her cold and wet cheek as Clarke's hands rest on your sides.

After a few steps Clarke finally understands that you're coaxing her into the bathroom, to get a warm shower. She doesn't let go of you even then.

* * *

You lie on your back as Clarke's head is propped on her left hand, her other hand drawing circles on your naked stomach.

"Will you tell me?" She asks carefully, stopping her hand for a few seconds.

"It might take a while. Also, I'm not good with words, especially when it comes to expressing how I feel," you turn your head to look at her. "I'm not sure I'll be able to explain it."

"I'm not in a hurry, are you?" Clarke gives you a small smile. "Tell me," she encourages.

"Here goes nothing," you inhale and then exhale sharply. "I've been diagnosed with depression since I was 16. I was always quite melancholic, but never had I felt despair and sadness until I turned 16. That was the first time I fell in love. Her name was Costia. I'm not going to get into it, but it didn't end well. We broke each other's hearts. It felt like a gaping hole that grew bigger each day. I didn't have any energy, I didn't sleep, I didn't eat. My parents have always been somewhat neglectful, so they didn't really notice the change. They started yelling more because I became so apathetic and passive. I couldn't deal with everything. I tried a lot of things that would help me cope, but to no avail. So I started cutting. It was an accident, at first. I cut myself unintentionally while preparing food in the kitchen, and I realized that it felt so good. I tried to resist it, but later I started doing it on purpose, with a razor. Nobody noticed, nobody cared."

"That's, that's the saddest thing I've ever heard," Clarke whispers into your wavy long hair, as she tightens her grip on your waist.

"When my parents noticed it was too late. My arm was already in scars, so many scars. They cared at first, but later they went back to their old ways. It's not that they didn't love me; I think they never knew how to take care of me. They never knew how to express that love without ruining me. Besides, they always put work first," you explain. "I've been so angry at them for so long, but then I realized they won't ever change. They just continue to hurt me, especially my mom," you stop for a bit and then sigh. You stare at the ceiling for a few minutes.

"Why?" Clarke asks confused. "Why do they continue to you hurt you, even though they know how sensitive you are?"

"I don't think they know how depression works; I guess they think I'm cured. I was 16 when it all started; they probably think all of the problems magically disappeared. Also, they're both a bit too emotional and talk without thinking most of the time, so they easily say something inconsiderate. I just… You know, I've spent my teenage years trying not to kill myself, coping with my depression, navigating a sinking vessel through every fucking disaster. So now I feel like all of those years shifted forward, I feel like a teenager when I'm not supposed to be. I am supposed to know what I want to do with my life; I'm not supposed to cry in corners."

"Your parents are insensitive, I get that the closer the people are to you, the more they can hurt you. Especially family because you can never get used to it. I'm really sorry you have to experience something like this," Clarke gets closer to you, puts her head on your chest and throws her leg over your hip. "And it is fine; no one said you can't get sad over this. You can cry, you can get angry,"

"I don't want to make it sound like I'm damaged. But I am, there's no way to put it differently," you start caressing her golden hair. "I'm broken. It's just the way it is."

"There's this quote I've read somewhere – _we're all broken. That's how the light gets in_ ," she says. "But you're not damaged, you had it hard, you had to come up with something that helped you cope. Not that I approve of your methods," Clarke's hand travels to your scarred forearm and runs over bumpy scars.

"I was desperate and nothing else helped, Clarke," you explain. "It wasn't something I decided to do lightly."

"I get it. I understand. Not that I can fully comprehend what you've felt and experienced, but still, I'm here for you. All the time. I want you to know that," she brings your scarred arm to her lips and kisses it multiple times. "Everything now probably seems like a fast-forward, that there are too many responsibilities and not enough time," Clarke states.

"It feels just like that. And a lot of things are really overwhelming for me," your free hand moves to Clarke's naked back, your fingers dance on her perfect skin. "But I do feel better, now that I have met you," you smile.

"At least something is good," she nuzzles into your chest.

Sometimes you think that everything is fine between the two of you. And it is. You care for each other, support each other, give each other strength. You'd like to think that at least. But sometimes, you think that you really don't deserve her.

* * *

Weeks pass and only now you notice that it's winter. And you love winter, you always did. You love the cold, the warm scarfs, the hot chocolate and long sleeved shirts to cover your scars. You love the snow and how it paints everything a blissful white. There is no snow yet, but you know there will be soon. You feel it, it's in the air. You walk into the university, looking through your class schedule and trying to remember in what auditorium the political science class will take place.

"Hey, Lexa," Octavia sneaks up on you in the university corridor, smiling widely.

"Hey, Octavia," you smile as well. "Haven't seen you in a while. What's up?"

"Well yeah, I've been busy. With Lincoln, this stupid university, the stupid physics class. Also I'm going to visit my brother Bellamy this weekend," Octavia explains as the two of you walk together. "I still have yet to start my physics assignment."

"It's nice that you're busy. Except physics because I never really understood what's the big deal with it anyway. Do you and Raven still hate on the physics professor?" You laugh as Octavia looks at you annoyed.

"I'm not saying I want to strangle him in his sleep, but I want to strangle him in his sleep," she says in dangerous voice, but then she laughs as well.

"I don't have a professor I want to strangle, but copyright law is pretty fucking boring," you complain. "But hey, at least Clarke's there," you laugh more.

You and Octavia walk a bit more, chatting and exchanging news, saying how all four of you need to go grab coffee one afternoon. Octavia says how she'd just try to shove black coffee into her mouth until she died from caffeine overdose and maybe then she wouldn't need to turn in the assignment.

"So how is the _dating Clarke_ thing going for you?" She teases. "I knew you two had an eye for each other from the moment you met. I called it," Octavia says proudly.

"We're good, thanks," you say as you roll your eyes. "It's nice of you to ask though."

"Really? Clarke looks stressed all the time now, so I thought I'd ask," Octavia says more seriously. "Cause you know, the things with her dad and …"

"She told you?" You ask her. "Of course she did, you're her friend as well. Sorry," you shake your head because that was a stupid question to ask. Octavia and Raven are her friends too.

"It's fine. Have you told her about your parents?" Octavia stops to adjust her bag. "I think she deserves to know," the two of you start walking again.

"I have," you nod your head. "Recently."

"Good, Raven was worried about you. Me too, to be honest," she says casually. "I'm glad you told Clarke, now you're both on the same page. Ok, I'm off to this fucking boring class. See you at lunch?"

"Sure. Hope you don't die from boredom," you yell as she smiles and waves goodbye.

* * *

Her dad's condition worsens.

Clarke laughs less and her skin is pale. There are dark circles under her eyes. You try to be there for her, but you don't know how to act, how to help. She repeats over and over that what you're doing is enough for her, but you don't believe her. Clarke is good at hiding her emotions, maybe even better than you are. It hurts somewhat, that she doesn't fully trust you. But you realize that's just the way she is, trying to shield you from all the negativity, mitigating it.

"I'm not that fragile, Clarke," you tell her once.

"I know, Lexa," she kisses your knuckles. "But sometimes I just really don't want to talk about it."

* * *

You walk into your room after a long day and are a little surprised to find Clarke there (you made her a copy of the key because she spends about 90% of her free time in your room anyway). She just sits there, head in her hands. She doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge your presence. She's like a statue, frozen in place.

"Clarke?" You ask cautiously as you get closer, leaving your bag on the floor and closing the door.

"Yeah?" Her voice is hoarse and she doesn't look at you yet.

"Are you alright? Raven told me she saw you crying after class," you sit down and carefully put your hand on her shaking shoulder. It feels like stone from all the tension that Clarke has been carrying around. All the stress goes to her back and shoulders, she said so once.

"I. Am. Just. Tired," she says pausing after very word. "Some of my assignments are late and I still haven't finished this one painting because I have no inspiration whatsoever."

"It's ok, you will, don't push it. Besides, I can help you with your assignments," you take her hand and caress her cheek carefully with another. "I've done all of mine."

"Of course you did, you always do everything on time," Clarke replies, smiling a bit. "But I don't want to burden you with my university stuff," she says seriously.

"You're my girlfriend," you say softly. "I will help you with whatever you need, you just need to ask, that's all."

"Yeah," some kind of emotion runs through Clarke's face, but it's gone before you read it.

"Clarke?" You say her name again.

"What? Oh, yeah, I'd like that. I'm just gonna go to the bathroom and then we can start, ok?" She smiles as she gets up and walks to the bathroom, closing door.

"Sure, let me just get my laptop," you say loudly as you reach out for it. "I'll also make some coffee, you want some?" You ask, but Clarke doesn't reply.

There is a weird, unexplainable feeling in your stomach. Something you haven't really experienced.

And it stings.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to thank you for all the nice reviews and your honest worries about Clarke and Lexa. Thank you for reading my story, thank you for liking it :)**  
 **Hope you like this chapter too. Enjoy!**

* * *

You feel the weight of Clarke on your chest. She's sound asleep, her hands gripping your white T-shirt, her face peaceful. But you can't seem to drift off, your mind is racing. You remember how two days ago, Clarke emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, her cheeks still a bit wet from crying and her face red. You were worried sick, especially when you heard the lock of the bathroom click. There was a heavy feeling in your stomach, turning everything inside; your head was a mess. But when you called out her name, she'd respond that she's fine, that she needs a bit more time. You'd carefully, silently come closer to the locked door but couldn't hear anything. That half an hour was the longest you ever remembered, filled with dread and waiting, waiting, waiting…

"Clarke," you'd try but she just waved it off, clicking the pen in her hand multiple times before putting it down on the table, on the scattered pages of different assignments.

"I'm just stressed, Lexa," she said as she exhaled slowly. "But I'm really grateful you're helping me with this homework. One less thing to worry about," she smiled a little.

You lie in bed and wonder how much Clarke isn't telling you and how long will it take for her shoulders to hunch from all the weight she's carrying.

* * *

Raven snaps her fingers in front of you in a loud and busy university cafeteria.

"Lexa?" Are you even listening?" Raven asks and puts food in her mouth, chewing, then trying again. "God, what happened? You're more distraught than ever," she takes a sip of a glass full of orange juice.

"Huh?" You flinch suddenly and Raven can't help but let out a laugh at your slow reflexes, but her face gets serious again.

"Lexa? What the fuck is going on?" She puts down the fork aside and stares right at you, trying to understand the situation better.

You've grabbed lunch with Raven at the cafeteria. The both of you accidentally met up after lectures in a corridor and decided to go get something to eat. You asked where Octavia was, and Raven said that she was busy with a group project, explaining in detail how and why Octavia hated group projects. She in turn then asked about Clarke. You said that Clarke texted you and that she skipped a lecture to go visit her dad in the hospital.

"What day is it?" You ask Raven absent-mindedly, not really hearing her question.

"Wednesday. What the hell is going on?" Raven doesn't relent and you sigh. "Is it Clarke? Your parents? Something else entirely? Lexa, talk to me," she pleads as she stops eating.

"It's just, I'm worried about Clarke," you say as you pick at your food, not feeling very hungry but still trying to eat something, needing to eat something.

"Well, she's your girlfriend, of course you are," Raven's voice gets a little softer. "She's having a difficult time right now, I'm sure she'd tell you if something was bothering her."

"Yeah, probably," you say, not entirely convinced. "How is Finn by the way?" You ask her, trying to change the subject but also interested in how their relationship is going.

"He's doing great. I'm still somewhat sad we're not going to the same university, but hey, we're doing alright even if we don't see each other every day," she concludes.

"Where does he live?" You put the cutlery down and take a gulp of the orange juice as well.

"This will sound funny, but the same town that Clarke used to live. Can you believe they were classmates?" Raven laughs.

"Really?" You look at Raven confused. "They were classmates?"

"Yeah. Apparently, Finn had an eye on her before he met me, but she clearly wasn't interested in him," Raven laughs again. "I used to spend a lot of time in that town with Finn. Strange that I only met Clarke in my first year here."

"It's such a small world, right?" You say. "And yes, Raven, she told me how you saved her ass," you look at her and Raven's smile grows wider.

"It's a very nice ass, so no problem there," you almost choke on the juice. "Relax, relax, Lexa. I'm not here to steal your girl," Raven grins widely and winks at you.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're insufferable?" You jokingly ask her as you get up, taking the semi-empty tray in your hands.

"Never," Raven pretends to feel insulted and gasps. "You always say the worst things about me," she shakes her head in disapproval, trying her best to hide the smile.

"Probably because I'm right. Ow, okay, okay, I get it," you scowl as Raven playfully elbows you in the ribs.

You both make jokes on the way to the dorms. You forget about the feeling of uneasiness for a while.

* * *

It's one of those days when nothing's wrong, but nothing's right either. You've been feeling like you're in a trance all day, lost in another time, another dimension. You come back to your room to find Clarke already there, lying on your bed, staring at the white ceiling. You leave your bag on the floor and join her, soon taking up your favorite position – you sprawled on your back and Clarke lying on top of you, her head on your chest. The both of you don't say anything for quite some time. You wonder how everything outside this room feels wrong and not real, like a dream, an illusion.

"Why?" Clarke breaks the silence and touches your scars.

"I've had too many things going on. On some days, I'd feel as if I was bursting with every possible human emotion and I couldn't contain it in my head, in myself. I'd cut to distract my thoughts, to arrange them," you answer after you clear your throat.

"Wait, you'd cut so you could concentrate?" She asks. "That doesn't really make sense."

"It does to me, Clarke," you say softly as you close your eyes. "Imagine as if a hundred voices screamed different things all at once loudly in your head. That's how I felt," you open your eyes and stare at the ceiling.

"I guess it does make sense then. It helped to concentrate because you could focus on the pain, right?" Clarke strokes your inner forearm carefully, tracing every line, every bumpy scar.

"Yes. Sometimes I felt so numb; I'd honestly think I was dead. I'd feel as if I am in space, in a vacuum, I'd feel like an empty shell. Then I'd cut to feel something, anything," you explain.

"Did it help?" Clarke shifts and her breath is on your neck now.

"Not always. But sometimes it did and that was all I needed at the time," you answer shifting slightly as well, wrapping your arms around her tightly.

"But it wasn't just your parents, right? I mean, I know they only added to the pain, but they were not the primary reason for it, were they?" Clarke says, and it's as if she's seeing into your soul, reading it easily. Or maybe you're just an easy person to read, you don't really know.

"There were many reasons. I told you that I fell in love with this girl. But before we started going out, before we confessed to each other, before I fell in love with her… Clarke, I thought I was straight, no kidding. I mean yeah, I never had a boyfriend and guys never really interested me, but once I fell for her I realized why," you say as you recall the moment of utter terror.

"It must have been hard," Clarke says, getting as close to you as possible, wrapping her arms around you. You no longer know where she ends and you begin.

"It was, believe me. I had no one to turn to, I had so many struggles with my sexuality and accepting it, understanding it, realizing what it meant and how it impacted my life. It was terrifying. Not to mention other shit that went down," you breathe out. "It may sound stupid now, but it wasn't back then."

"It's not stupid, internalized homophobia probably played a hand in this too, not to mention that you had no one to talk to. I can't even fully grasp how difficult it must've been because my understanding of it was seamless, effortless," Clarke says as her hands grip your waist. "I accepted my sexuality easily, not even giving it a second thought".

"Probably because your parents didn't make a big deal out of it, they were more liberal, more accepting, more loving. My parents were always somewhat homophobic, so I never told them. I never shared this with them, I already knew what they would say," you turn the both of you slightly so now you're lying on your sides and you nuzzle into Clarke's neck, breathing in her scent.

"Will you tell me more?" Clarke's hands caress the skin under your sweater, just above your waist.

"I will," you say as you kiss her pulse point. "But not today."

* * *

Clarke walks in, locks the door behind her, doesn't even say a word.

"Clarke?" She comes closer, puts her bag on the empty chair besides you. Clarke then takes off her coat and her shoes, doing everything in silence. "Clarke?" You repeat.

"Yeah?" She turns her head and her eyes are full of something you can't seem to understand. Hunger mixed with something else entirely and it's somewhat unsettling, weird.

"Are you ok?" You ask her as she starts kissing you, her hands unbuttoning your plaid shirt and discarding it. Clarke takes your hands and you stand up, confused by the suddenness of it all.

"I will be," Clarke hungrily latches her lips on your throat and starts sucking at your pulse point. Her hands work on your belt and the button of your skinny jeans as you still can't seem to fully understand what's going on.

"Did something happen?" You try as she continues to undress you.

"Not really, nothing serious," she says pushing you to the bed, kissing you, her cold hands touching your warm skin.

"Then what is it?" The back of your knees hit the bed and you find Clarke on top of you not a second later. She has managed to get you naked, but only now did she take off her red sweater, still in her undershirt, still fully dressed.

"I just really fucking missed you today, Lexa," she says, her voice low and husky and full of want. Her pupils are blown; you barely see the blue around the edges. She buries her face in your naked chest, groping, licking and you can't help but moan and shudder.

"We saw each other yesterday," you recall, but Clarke just shakes her head as she kisses the valley between your breasts and then down your stomach.

"But I didn't see you today," Clarke's hands scatter across your body, leaving skid marks.

"Clarke, sex isn't a coping mechanism," you say as she lowers herself and kisses your thigh.

"I just really need you," Clarke's fingers grip your thighs harder.

"Okay," you say softly. "Take me," you give in.

Later, still in your high, you cannot manage to come up with any coherent question to ask her what's really wrong. Clarke's fingers are still inside of you when she falls asleep. You kiss her forehead and forget about the anxiety that washes over you.

* * *

"Clarke, are you cheating?" You make a move and ask her, looking directly into her blue eyes, trying to figure it out.

"Of course not!" She throws you a knowing look and then concentrates her eyes on the board. "Admit it, you never thought I'd be so good," she stares at the board for a few more minutes and then moves a chess piece. You overview the pieces and try to come up with a new strategy.

"I'm going to be honest, I underestimated you," you laugh, but at the same time you think that Clarke is probably the toughest opponent you've had to face yet. She's good, really good. You carefully move another piece forward, trying to predict her next move.

"What can I say, I have talented hands," she says as she contemplates which piece can go where, not even realizing the implication behind her words.

"Oh, that I know," you smirk and Clarke shoots you an annoyed look. "What? I'm telling the truth," you laugh out loud as Clarke's cheeks fluster.

"Don't distract me, Woods. I'm going to beat your ass in this," Clarke shakes her head, smiling, looking at the board, then at you.

"Are you sure, Clarke?" Your smirk gets cocky. "I've never lost. Not once."

"Well, I hate to disappoint," she looks straight at you, licking her lips. "But you're going to lose. Wanna bet?" Clarke tilts her head arrogantly and stares expectantly at you.

"What are we betting on?" You sit up straighter, intrigued, waiting for an answer. "I want to know what I will win."

"Hmm," Clarke thinks for a moment. "Whoever loses has to prepare dinner. Half-naked," she says as she relaxes into the chair, eyeing you from head to toe, biting her lower lip.

"Sounds like my kind of bet. You're going down, Griffin," you say as you stretch your neck, preparing to get serious.

Determination in Clarke's eyes almost makes you lose.

* * *

"Don't fucking touch me," Clarke's face is turned to the wall as you laugh out loud in the dark of the room.

"Babe, I'm sorry that I won," you try as you press up against her back, placing your hands on her hips. "But those were your own terms. You came up with them," you giggle into the back of her neck before kissing it carefully.

You've won fair and square. But it was probably the most difficult match you've ever played because Clarke was incredibly good. It lasted for hours. You almost lost too, after you saw you've made a foolish move, though you managed to bounce back. After you've won, you relaxed back into the chair, raising your eyebrows and smiling victoriously. Clarke sat still, her arms crossed and her face angry for a good ten minutes before she casually threw her shirt over her head onto the floor and took off her pants in one swift motion. You laughed as you just stared at the perfect curve of her back and shoulders. While Clarke walked around fetching spices and preparing food, you read a magazine lying around on the table, but couldn't really concentrate. You stared at Clarke's hips and the tattoo that peaked from her black underwear. You stared at the golden mess on her head and at her black bra covered breasts when she'd turn and ask you something. You found it endearing, that no matter how many times you've had her, you always wanted more.

"I hate you," she turns to you and whispers grumpily in the dark.

"No, you don't," you correct her, your foreheads touching, eyes closed, hands clutching at her black tank top.

"No, I don't," Clarke repeats, her hands sneaking under your shirt and traveling to your back.

"I do hope that you at least like me," you laugh again. "I'd be sad otherwise."

"Go to sleep, Lexa," you hear Clarke say. "I'm so done with you today," she giggles.

"You're awfully bossy for someone who's lost today, Clarke," you shift a little and lower yourself so that you bury your face in her chest.

Minutes pass and you're engulfed in the familiar warmth which is Clarke, her hands drawing some kind of patterns on your back. You feel yourself fading away, sleep taking over little by little, step by step. You're almost out when you hear it, the faintest of words.

"I love you," Clarke whispers into your hair.

* * *

"Tell me about your dad, Clarke," you whisper one day while lying on Clarke's stomach, the blizzard outside raging on.

"I've told you about my family, Lexa," she plays with the strands of your hair, twirling it between her fingers.

"And I've told you about mine. I want more," you say, then kiss her flat stomach.

After returning from lectures, you found Clarke still asleep, her black tank top ridden up to reveal her smooth, milky white stomach. Entranced by it, but still sleepy, you placed your head on the soft skin and closed your eyes.

"To be honest, I never got on well with my dad. I always felt closer to my mom. Mom used to say that dad and I were too alike and that's why we didn't have a good relationship, we both were too stubborn, hot-tempered. He'd usually yell at me and I'd yell back. Only a few years ago did we start building a better relationship," Clarke explains.

"You put your differences or should I say – sameness aside?" You ask, kissing her stomach again.

"Not exactly. I just realized he'd never change, but the way I respond to him can. So I started being more patient with him, reacting differently. When he'd yell, I'd just stay silent, remain cool-headed. We started seeing each other in a different light, I became more patient, he became more understanding. Our relationship improved tremendously," she caresses your hair, raking her fingers through it gently. "We grew really close in the past few years."

"I'm sure he will be alright. He's a fighter and the doctors are doing all they can," you try to reassure her. "Besides, you've told me that it's in an early stage. I believe he'll get better soon."

"I know, it's just… really difficult," her hands find their way to your shoulder blades; her fingers trace the bones there.

"I know I can't fully understand how you feel, but you have me either way, Clarke," you pull up her shirt a bit more and leave a trail of kisses there.

"Thank you, Lexa," her nails carefully travel throughout your back, scratching it.

There's caution in Clarke's voice and you figure that you still can't put your finger on what's wrong. But something definitely is.

* * *

The bubble finally bursts.

"You never tell me what's wrong, Clarke!" You try to reason with her.

Clarke came by. The heavy silence indicated that something happened, but when you asked about it, she just brushed it off. As always. You felt on the edge, fed up with the phrases " _I'm okay_ " or " _It's nothing really_ ". You just wanted to know, to help, to get her to talk, to share.

"Lexa," her voice is dangerously quivering and you know that she's on the edge too.

"I want to help. I am always here for you, but that's not enough either for you, or for me," you say. "I can't just ignore that there's something wrong. I care about you," you explain to her, but she just stands in the middle of the room, her face pale and indifferent.

There's a long pause and Clarke looks so small and tired. As if the whole world just crashed down, pulling her with it. You don't mind the silence if it means that you'll get an explanation, just something that might help you understand. You care for her, God; you never cared for anyone as much as her. You cross your hands on your chest and wait. After a few more minutes Clarke starts shaking.

"I am in a constant state of fear. Every phone call or text I get, I feel so anxious, I'm terrified. What if something's wrong with my dad at the hospital? What if I get a call that something happened to you? That you did something to yourself, Lexa?" Clarke yells. "Do you have any idea of what I have to deal with every day?" Her words take you aback.

You should have foreseen it really. It's true then, you're the problem. It never changes, does it? People always walk away from you, not being able to deal with who, what you are, not taking you seriously. They think you do this for fun, slit your wrists occasionally, no big deal. They think that you're weak, not being able to take anything life throws at you. Why? Are you too self-centered? Too absorbed in your problems? Too fragile? Lacking empathy? To hell with this.

"You aren't obliged to take care of me, Clarke. I am not a child," you say.

"You're not, but you act like one sometimes!" She's furious, emotional. "You think that if you cut yourself, all of the problems will disappear? It doesn't work that way, does it?" Clarke's voice is heated, laced with some sort of venom you've never heard before. So that's what she really thinks, huh?

"That's great, Clarke, really fucking great. Thanks," you say coldly. "Yes, my coping methods are probably the worst, but at least I deal with my problems, I don't run away. I'm not pretending like you. I may be a liar, Clarke, but you're a hypocrite," your voice is ice cold.

"Lexa," Clarke tries. "I didn't mean…" Clarke stutters as she stares at the ground.

"No, Clarke, you did," you interrupt her. "You said exactly what you meant."

"Lexa… Please," there are tears in her eyes, but you're unmoved, not one bit. You just feel hurt, betrayed, tired, dead.

"Just go," you clench your fists tightly, the knuckles as white as the snow outside. "Just, go," you repeat as you turn away from her, unshed tears burning the back of your eyelids.

You hear the door being shut and the tears finally escape. You stare at the whiteness of the snow outside and realize how empty you feel. There's probably no salvation after all.

* * *

It's been three days since your fight with Clarke. You don't eat, you don't sleep, new scars appear on your arm, but no one notices them when you're dressed in cute sweaters that hide them. It's a curse really. Being so self-conscious of your methods and realizing how terrible and self-destructive they are. Clarke's right though – something bad happens and you go back to your extreme coping methods. You're weak, disgusting.

Again, you stop paying attention to the world around you, pretending it doesn't exist.

Winter is in full swing here, the holidays are coming fast. You dread every second of it.

* * *

There's a knock on the door in the middle of the night. Your sleepy mind does not fully comprehend what's what when you open the door and your face scrunches from the lighted hallway.

"I don't want to fight. I want to apologize," you hear a familiar voice say. "I'm sorry I said those things."

You open the door for her to come in. The both of you stand in the middle of the dark room, and it takes a while for you to see her features in the dark clearly. You say nothing, just wait for Clarke to say what she wants and you'll take it from there. She nervously adjusts the sleeves of her black hoodie.

"You were right, Lexa," you hear a sob escape her mouth. "I don't deal with my problems; I just bury them in myself. I am a hypocrite. I didn't want to tell you how I felt most of the time because I was afraid for your well-being. I didn't want to add up to your problems."

Add up to your problems. Wait. Add up to _your_ problems? You think how nothing makes sense anymore. Absolutely nothing.

"How dare you say this?" You ask her calmly. "How dare you say that my problems are more important than yours?" You shake your head.

"Lexa?" Clarke asks cautiously, waiting for you to continue.

"You keep everything inside, locked away from me, you let it build and bubble over the edges. Then you lash out at me and tell me my methods are bad?" You ask her. "Then, you have the audacity to say you don't want to add up to my problems, but still expect me to somehow know what's going on without ever telling me? What the fuck, Clarke?"

"I, I just wanted…" Clarke stutters, lost for words.

"I would have supported you. Whatever you said, whatever you did, I would have put my problems aside and be there for you, always. Yes, I'm fragile, not as strong as you, but I knew I could confide in you, be honest with you, believe in you. It's a shame you didn't feel the same way about me," your dead eyes stare at her lifeless, empty ones.

"I didn't want to upset you," she looks away. "I didn't want to trigger anything. I didn't want to make it all about me."

"You've upset me even more by not trusting me," you reply as you go past her and to the door. You hold it open, not saying a word.

You notice the trail of tears on her cheeks, but you're stubborn, too stubborn and too hurt by this. You watch Clarke leave again.

Sometimes, when someone won't let you in for too long, you eventually stop knocking.

* * *

Raven and Octavia try their best to be the peacekeepers, but you tell them that it's not their business and they shouldn't be affected by what's going on between you and Clarke.

"But you're fighting," Octavia says as the three of you spend your time in the cozy coffee shop near campus. They dragged you out, almost carried you out, even though you said that you didn't want to see anyone. But also you needed a break from the same four walls that you were stuck in.

"It's not like Lincoln and you do not fight," you take a gulp of the hot coffee and turn to her.

"We do but it's ten times simpler than this mess," she waves her hand at you. "Raven, help me out here," she pleads, adjusting the laces of her combat boots.

"Well, the both of them have super complex personalities," Raven interjects. "I'm not judging you, you're both terrible," Raven says as you shoot her a deadly glare.

"You know what's not cool? Clarke not opening up to you. You know what's not cool as well?" Octavia continues. "You relying on Clarke to save you."

"Octavia," Raven gives her a warning look.

"No, Raven, let me say this," Octavia explains. "I understand that Clarke means a lot to you and that it's been easier ever since the two of you got together. But she's not a coping mechanism, Lexa," Octavia shakes her head slightly.

"Of course she isn't!" You say loudly, your voice mixed with disbelief that they could ever think that.

"But you're treating her like she is," Octavia takes a gulp. "It's like you're trying to balance her and everything that's going on with your parents. It doesn't work that way, she can make mistakes, be in a bad mood. I'm terrible at this, but you know what I mean," she points to Raven and then takes a sip of her bitter black coffee.

"I do," Raven answers seriously and grips the warm mug with her two hands. "Lexa, you don't need Clarke to save you. Same with Clarke."

"It's not about that. We're not some damsels in distress, it's about trust. She made me feel like it's all about me, like she doesn't matter, but she does. She doesn't tell me anything even if I ask! I try to be there for her, but I just feel useless!" You smash your fist on the table and Octavia jumps up slightly.

"It sucks. I get it," Raven says. "I don't even know how to help."

"I'm not a psychic, I can't read her mind. I try to be there for her, but she doesn't let me. She probably thinks that if she upsets me with her problems, I'll just jump off of a building ten seconds later. I'm her girlfriend and she doesn't even tell me what's wrong."

"Give her time? Clarke has always been like this," Octavia says. "She has always kept her problems to herself," she puts the empty mug back on the coffee shop table.

"It's me, isn't it?" you stare at the coffee. It's always me," you murmur quietly.

"Clarke is only human, Lexa," Raven says. "Don't forget that," the three of you fall into heavy silence.

* * *

It's Friday night and you spend your time in bed. It's been about a week since you fought. You feel weird to say the least. You don't want for Clarke to hold herself back on your behalf but at the same time, you're broken and lost and hurt and... You understand what Raven and Octavia tried to tell you and they're right at some point, you can't rely on another person to solve your problems. But that doesn't mean you can't be there for them. You want to be there for Clarke, you want to, but there's a wall between you in this matter, and it seems that nothing you do helps you get closer to her. Have you not told her that you have her back? Have you not said you will be there for her? You lie in bed and think, and think, and think how this can be solved, but you truly have no idea.

At 4 AM you realize that you don't deserve her, at all. That it's the reason she's holding back. That it's because you're weak, because you jump from one extreme to the other. All of this, what's been happening with Clarke, comes back to you. You are the root of the problem and roots need to be weeded out.

* * *

You called Clarke, told her you needed to talk to her, she told you to come by. You feel spaced out, like nothing's real anymore, like it's happening to someone else, not you. You feel disassociated. The quiet of her room doesn't help either.

"What are you talking about?" Clarke seems very confused. "I don't understand. Lexa?"

"I'm unworthy of you. I wish I was," you explain in a monotone voice. "You deserve better, and it's really difficult for me to say this, but I'm just pulling you down. I wish I was stronger, I wish I could have taken the pain away from you," you look at her, your eyes empty, and you just feel like you've gone mad, like nothing matters anymore. Maybe it doesn't.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You're not pulling me down," Clarke's eyes are full of tears once more as she tries to caress your face. "Lexa, don't do this."

"Clarke, you don't understand," you voice breaks and it takes moments to pull yourself back together.

"Are you breaking up with me?" She asks. "Is this how it ends?"

"No. I just, I don't, I feel…" you can't find the right words. "I think we need a time out, I don't know… I don't know what's happening anymore," you try to explain in vain.

"Lexa, you don't need to," she tries, but you interrupt her.

"Clarke," you shake your head. "I'm broken. I rely on you too much to make things better, while I do nothing. I'm just terrible. I mean, I have to be, right? Because why would this be happening then? I'm trash. I'm weak, and I don't want you to think that it's you. It's all me, all the time," you start shaking.

"You are not terrible," she takes a step closer. "People wait lifetimes to meet someone like you," she whispers in your ear as her hands hold you tightly, not wanting to let go.

You stand like that for a while. Maybe if you ignore the problem, it will go away? Maybe if you close your eyes, you'll forget. But things never go that way. You feel like you're falling, like the last remnants of you as a person are being deleted. You no longer feel right in your own skin.

"You'll just leave either way, inevitably. You'll walk away too, sooner or later. Just like all of them. In time, I know this will happen," you say to Clarke. "Just like all of the people I ever cared for, like my friends who've left me," you can't seem to stop shaking.

You've been down this road before. You've been the one that endures when your friends leave and people fuck off, and you're left alone to pick up the pieces, getting damaged even more, barely able to glue the pieces of what's left back together. You don't want to ever walk that path again. Not with her, not with Clarke. She deserves so much more than you can give, even if she did hurt you.

"I'm not like any of them," she says, her voice strong, even though there are tears staining her cheeks.

"You'll leave. I know you will. Or you'll start hating me," your arms tremble and you can't seem to scrub the blood off of your hands. "And I don't want that, I don't want that…"

"No, I won't," Clarke pleads; more tears appear in her eyes as you carefully pull away from her. "Lexa, I need you, you need me. Don't do this."

"I don't believe you," you say as you walk away.

You can hear Clarke's tears hit the floor, the sound repeating over and over in your head.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you for your patience, I'm a tad bit late, but either way, i hope you enjoy this chapter :) It was a bit of a challenge to write because there's not as much dialogue as before, but I still wanted to hit a similar word count. So I hope I don't disappoint. Also, let me know what you think of this chapter and the story overall, I'm always interested in hearing out your opinions and feedback. Moreover, thank you to everyone who reached out for me, I hope I do this story justice.**

 **As always, shoutout to my friend Will for editing and etc. I appreciate it.**

* * *

You're back in your hometown; you don't even call it home anymore. It has lost its meaning a long time ago, years even. It's just that you've never realized that before you met Clarke. Her arms have become a new home for you, a space where you could nestle into her, drink in her warmth. But now she's too far away and there's no comfort for you. You're emotionally homeless, there's nothing that ties you down to this world. There's only emptiness, bareness here, and it makes you uncomfortable. You feel like throwing up every five minutes because of the stress and severe anxiety. It's like a black hole that sucks you into the void and renders you helpless. Sometimes it feels like there's no escape. The emotional rollercoaster doesn't help much either. One second, you feel dead and gone, the other - feelings come crashing down, sudden, like a tidal wave. You think about Clarke, about her golden hair and the harsh words. About the beauty mark just above her top lip and her long legs, supple hips. About the destruction that the both of you seem to bring to each other. It's as if you're going back and forth through a minefield with no warning sign. You think about Clarke and how you've probably already lost her. It's unclear if you can rebound from it all; maybe you're just playing a game that has been doomed from the start. You clench your fists, your knuckles turning white, and it gets hard to breathe, way too hard. You gasp for air, but it's like the oxygen doesn't reach your lungs, like your body rejects it, ignores it. The panic makes you convulse, your breathing becomes even more erratic, your head light. You can feel the muscles contracting underneath the pale skin. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize that it's cold, way too cold, in this god forsaken room.

"Lexa?" You hear your dad's voice from the corridor and you sit up straight in the bed. "The bathroom is free. You can go shower like you've wanted," he says behind the closed door.

"Yeah," you cough, clearing your throat. "Yeah, thank you. I'll do that."

The warm water of the shower runs down your face. You feel like drowning. Maybe you are.

* * *

The holidays went by in a haze. It's as if you were rooted to the spot while everything around you went in fast-forward, it was just you who was in slow-motion, forgotten by time, frozen. You can't believe it's already January, you remember it being autumn just a few seconds ago. You turn your back to the window, scanning the room, barely believing that you grew up in this small space, this tiny shoe box. Your room feels so foreign, like it is not yours anymore, like it belongs to someone else and you're just an intruder. The bed is too hard, too small and uncomfortable in general; the walls seem too close for comfort, pressing in, trying to crush you. There's nothing left here, only the bad energy from the times you poured your soul out into this room. Your bedroom walls have absorbed everything – your screams, your tears, your blood, your failure. You take a step towards the closet which is half-empty now, mostly because all of your stuff is at the dorm. You stare at the mirror fitted inside of the door. A girl you can't recognize stares back and you struggle to understand that it's your reflection. That girl looks and feels like a different person altogether. You stare at the mirror and cannot seem to figure out which one is the real you. The dark circles under her eyes indicate a lack of sleep, a thing you're awfully well familiar with.

"Lexa?" Your mother shouts from the kitchen downstairs and startles you. "There's a letter for you. Can you come here and take it?"

A letter? But who could have sent it? You sigh and close the closet door, the other girl disappears. Only Octavia and Raven know your address, but why would they feel the need to send a letter of all things? Maybe they have sent you postcard or something? You honestly have no idea why they'd do that, you all agreed to not exchange gifts; but rather spend an evening together, hanging out.

"Lexa!" You hear your mom shout again. You stand in the middle of the room, already forgotten what is it that you needed to do. Sometimes, you forget about your own existence, as if you're floating somewhere, no solid ground beneath your feet because everything you touch crumbles. Including other people.

"Just a second, mom," you yell as you stumble through the door, hitting your shoulder into the hard wooden doorframe. You curse under your breath as you carefully make your way downstairs, trying not to slip. Your mom is making dinner; the TV in the living room is turned on and your dad is nowhere to be found, probably taking his time to clean the garage. Your mom smiles at you and points to the letter on the counter, then takes out some produce out of the fridge.

"This just came in the mail," she says as she chops the vegetables for the stew.

"Does it have a back address?" You ask her. "I have no idea why I'd have a letter be sent here. Only a few people know this address," you try not to act too surprised.

"No, there's no address. Weird," your mom stops what she's doing, wipes her hands and takes the letter, inspecting it. "Here," she gives you the light envelope.

"Thank you," you unwillingly extend your hand and take it, as if afraid that it will bite you. "I'll go read it," you take a step towards the stairs, and then stop in your tracks for a bit.

"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour," your mom says after glancing at a bubbling pot on the stove. "It's your favorite stew," she says proudly.

"Great, but I just… Don't really feel hungry. Either way, do you need any help?" You ask her, but secretly wish that she doesn't and you can leave peacefully.

"No, I'm almost done. I will call you when dinner is ready," she smiles. "Oh, your aunt, cousin and uncle are joining us for dinner. They really wanted to see you, so I hope you'll spend some time with them," she says casually, but the dread has already settled in your stomach.

"Sure," you answer generically, not really wanting to see anyone. "Ok, I will go read this," you say as you wave the letter and go upstairs again.

* * *

 _Dear Lexa,_

 _I imagine the surprise on your face when you get this letter. I'm sorry, but I asked Raven for the address, I hope you won't get mad at her for giving it to me. I was relentless and she was annoyed at my constant nagging._

 _I know this isn't enough, but us both being in our own respective cities, this letter is the closest I can get to you. I know, I just could've called or texted, but it wouldn't feel the same, not with what I want to tell you in this letter. Of course, the letter doesn't do any justice either when I could have just spoken to you, but for the life of me, I cannot figure out how words work. I was never good with them. This is like my tenth attempt to write this, there's a ton of crumpled ones on my desk, the ones that never made it._

 _I know that what I will write now won't compensate for the damage I've done. Not even close. The reason why I avoided talking about my problems was to protect you, or so I thought at the time. I just couldn't bear to see you cry or harm yourself again; my heart wouldn't have been able to take it. But in being protective, I ended up being destructive. I wanted to give you breathing room, I wanted for you to be able to have some peace of mind, not to add my own issues to the ones you were already struggling with. I think I low-key wanted to forget my own problems, because talking about them would mean dealing with them and I wasn't ready. To be honest, I don't know if I am now. Either way, I wanted to tell you that you are far stronger than you think you are. I've been crumbling under all this shit that's been going on in my life; I can't stop thinking about how you deal with so much more and seem relatively calm, unfazed. I know that it's only a mask, but still._

 _I just… I don't know, Lexa. I have felt on the edge for so long, I couldn't even tell when I stumbled and fell. It's pathetic that I can't even recall my breaking point. But I started skipping lectures to visit my dad. I thought I'd fail all of my classes. When I got home, my mom wouldn't stop crying about my dad, forgetting herself, forgetting me. Whenever I was with my dad, he wouldn't stop acting as if he was going to die any day now. I couldn't take it; I didn't want to drag you down with me as well. But you were far more understanding, far more caring than I could ever hope for. I always was the one who bottled up her feelings inside, it was too big of a challenge to change my methods. I guess the same applies to you as well._

 _I take full responsibility for the hurtful words I said, even if I didn't want to. It was not my place to question your methods, not when I didn't deal with my problems at all. I didn't want to be like that, I promised myself I would never hurt you like that. But I did and I'm sorry. Like I've said, I never wanted to hurt you, but it probably hurts even more when it's unintentional._

 _Please don't give up on me, I really miss you._

 _Yours,_

 _Clarke Griffin_

You fold the letter back, your hands shaking heavily. You fall to bed and clutch the letter to your chest tightly, your fingers tracing the edges of the sharp paper.

Five minutes later your mom calls you to dinner.

* * *

You suddenly seem to remember all the reasons why you hate going back to your hometown. One of those is dealing with your relatives and their constant intrusive, stupid questions about your personal life.

"So, Lexa," your aunt begins and you brace yourself for yet another round of not trying to break down in front of your family. "Is there anyone special in your life?" She winks as you take a generous gulp of the wine in your glass.

"No," you say without even thinking. It doesn't matter what you say, it's the question you can never win at. You hate it.

"Well, then we really need to introduce you to this marvelous boy," your aunt looks at your parents knowingly and you try your best not to smash your fist into the goddamn table.

"Oh really?" Your mom seems interested and you roll your eyes. "What does he do?" She asks, pouring more wine for the guests and looking at your aunt expectantly.

"He's studying engineering, he's got a great career ahead of him already," she explains. "And I heard he's single. He'd be a great match for our little Lexa," your aunt giggles and your stomach turns. You try your best to ignore it, pretend. But this kind of talk always happens when your relatives visit. And it seems that you can never escape it.

"Lexa, darling, you seem pale," your uncle comments as your dad passes him the salad. "Are you feeling alright?" He asks not even looking at you, putting the salad onto his plate.

"I'm fine, just tired," you lie because that's what you always do. "I had a lot of studying to do, even if it's winter vacation," you take a sip of wine as if to mask the blatant lie.

"Lexa, you barely ate anything," your estranged cousin says. "Are you ok?" She knits her eyebrows in confusion.

"I just don't feel particularly hungry," you answer. "Don't pay attention to it. How are you doing? You've been quieter than usual," you ask your cousin that you've never been very close to. You just need a distraction, to divert attention. You're not interested, but you need to change topics fast.

"I'm doing great!" She says excitingly. "I got engaged a few months back!" Your cousin squeals with joy and you grip the wine glass tighter. Would it be inappropriate if you stabbed yourself with a dining fork right about now?

"That's wonderful, dear," your mom says proudly. "I hope we're invited to the wedding?" She asks hopefully, smiling.

"Of course! Though we haven't set the date yet, but you're all invited," she grabs your hand and looks at you hopefully. "Maybe Lexa will attend the wedding with someone special," she winks at you and you don't remember the last time you forced a smile so hard, the corners of your mouth start hurting.

"Maybe," your laugh couldn't be faker even if you wanted, but these people are so oblivious to everything around them, they don't even notice it.

They never do.

* * *

It's weird how you still feel so out of place even after you've returned to the dorms. You stare through the window; see the snow, the dirt, the buildings not so far away, and it still feels as if it's not you. As if there's another person doing all of that, seeing all these things. You feel an overwhelming desire to smoke, but you're too lazy, too tired to go outside.

"Fuck it," you say loudly into the thin air.

You decide to open the window and just go with it, you don't really care. You light up the cigarette, and as you inhale the smoke, you can feel your head get lighter, your fragmented thoughts dissipate. It's been a while since your last cigarette. Clarke has shown her disgust for the things and you never were addicted to nicotine, you smoked just to calm your nerves, so it was easy to quit. Too easy.

You think about Clarke again, about her letter, about what she's doing. Clarke's pleas from the last conversation you had ring in your ears as you try to shake off the feeling of uneasiness. Can you really go back to where you were? Or were you irreparably flawed right from the beginning?

* * *

"Well look at you, you look great, Lexa," Raven says after you've accidentally run into her in a shop nearby campus.

"I feel like shit to be honest," you yawn and take off your gloves. "What are you up to? How were the holidays?" You ask her, grabbing an empty basket as Raven does the same.

"As always, I've spent them with Finn," Raven picks up a carton of milk. "I saw Clarke," she says while reading the label or at least pretending to do so.

"How… how is she doing?" You swallow roughly, and then turn your head for a second so Raven doesn't see your face and desperation written on it.

"She's… Well…" there's a pause that makes your heart stop and ache. "She's been better," Raven concludes as she shakes her head slightly.

"I figure," you look at your basket. Three packs of cigarettes, a lemon and a bottle of tequila.

"How did you spend yours?" You both head to self-check-out. "Was everything ok?"

"You know, the usual," you take out the leather wallet from your bag.

"Let me guess – they found you yet another boyfriend," Raven laughs as she puts the change away in her pocket, then takes the groceries in her hands. "And everyone is as ignorant as ever?"

"Wow, Raven, didn't know you were stalking me," you pay for your stuff while Raven waits patiently. "Have you been following me?" You pretend to be shocked. There's a pause again.

"I'm really sorry for how your family is treating you," Raven says softly.

"It's not your fault, Raven," she pretends she doesn't notice the tequila bottle you're putting away into your bag. "Besides, I thought it would be worse. My parents were not their insufferable selves. Honestly, that was very strange for me," you head out of the store, into the coldness, pulling out gloves from the pockets of your coat in the process.

"She misses you," Raven says abruptly, before heading towards her dormitory. "See ya, Lexa," she shouts from the distance. It starts snowing; you heard there will be a blizzard tonight.

You don't say anything in return. You're not sure you'd be able to say what you wanted.

* * *

The headache keeps pounding, your head is pulsing. And spinning, spinning, spinning… You're drunk on tequila, mixing it with cigarettes that you're smoking right in your dorm room. It's clearly against the rules, but you can't be bothered since you don't care anymore. You leave the half-empty bottle on the table and find your way to the bathroom. The cold water helps you focus, but when you raise your head, again, you see a girl staring back at you. You look at your reflection and can't seem to recognize the person in the mirror. It's not you, it's not, it can't be. You don't know who she is, but it's not you, that's for sure. You pop a few pills from the cabinet because of your headache, then head back to the table and take a big gulp of the tequila. You blast the music loudly from the laptop, not even bothering to turn down the volume.

"You're disgusting," you say to yourself quietly after a few minutes. "I hate you, you ruin everything," you spit out the venomous words and grab the bottle again.

No one says anything back, there's a heavy silence in the room. No wonder.

* * *

You're drunk and everything is blurry, like a mosaic with vibrant, bright colors, but there's no clarity whatsoever. You have lost yourself again, hurt yourself again. The bathroom tiles are cold against your bare feet, but you don't care. Your hand with the razor is shaking too much, and you accidentally cut in too deep. Shit… You stare at the hole in your wrist as dark blood pours out, dripping on the bathroom floor. Your hand goes numb, and you figure that you've probably cut into the nerve or something. But tequila numbs down the pain if you even feel any, you can't tell.

"Fuck!" You say out loud. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," you grab the towel and it immediately turns crimson red, soaking up the blood.

You turn on the sink, wash the towel, put it against your wrist. Repeat. Repeat it again.

After a few times of doing that you just get too tired, too sleepy, too drowsy. You take the razor again and put it against your skin, but don't cut it. Blood flows through your arm, staining the white bathroom tiles. You think how nothing ever changes, bad habits never disappear. The self-destruction will always be there, lurking just around the corner, changing shape and size, but never going away for real. Your hand shakes.

No, don't back out. You never back out. That's just who you are. The razor kisses your skin again. The weight of reality evaporates like smoke. You're all alone in this.

* * *

You were always the one everyone talked about. The one with the highest grades, the smartest, the prettiest, the nicest… You always carried high expectations like a burden, like a boulder on your back. And you could never shake off the feeling that you're a disappointment. It never mattered what you did right, it was always about what you did wrong. Failure was inevitable. One could only succeed so many times. You could've made a hundred things right and one wrong, and you'd still fuss over that one thing. Failure was rare, but that made it even more painful because you could never get used to it. You tried adjusting yourself, no expectations, no disappointments. And sometimes, you managed to do that. But those times were rare as well. You realized that people never really change, they adjust; get better at masking their flaws and weaknesses. But we are who we are. Does that mean there's no escape, no salvation? Does that mean that depression will always follow you around? It appears so. The worst part is not that you're the one who is condemned; it's that you will always drag other people down no matter what. Pretending to be fine uses up most of your energy, and besides, you don't want to pretend in front of the people you care most about. It's a weird cycle. Pretending to be fine would be lying; being sincere and open would be dragging them down with you. You just can't win or so it seems.

" _It is all about loving yourself_ ". But how can you love yourself when you're truly the only one who knows yourself the best? How can you look into the mirror and not feel disgust for every lie, every action? How can people push that aside and live a happy, healthy life?

You have never understood that. You probably never will.

* * *

You're certain that you're dying. Or at least, it feels like it. Probably not eating and not sleeping finally caught up with you. Among other things. Not to mention that there's a hole in your wrist and the bleeding didn't stop for a very long time. But now the blood has dried off and it's fine, you're fine, right? Probably not. The few painkillers you washed off with tequila don't help either. You stare at your reflection in the bathroom again and feel like you'll pass out any second. No, it's fine, you just need to lie down. You need some sleep, some rest, you need to relax and forget about everything. You step out of the bathroom and your head starts spinning like crazy, you stumble and stop. Who knows how long you've been awake now. After another step, your legs give out and you fall onto the floor on your back. The carpet doesn't soften the blow one bit and there's a hard thud as you fall down. Everything seems to disappear for a bit. You lie on the floor for about 20 seconds, closing your eyes due to the intense light, opening them again. No, it's not fine, you're not fine… Why'd you do this? Why'd you hurt yourself so much again? " _It's because I don't care about myself. I don't give a damn_ " a thought flies by somewhere in the back of your mind. You close your eyes because they start watering and your shaking fingers carefully travel to your pocket in search for the phone there. There's nothing left to say. Yet still… You feel conflicted. But you hit the call button and wait for what seems like centuries, your vision blurry.

"Hey," Clarke's voice is so soft and familiar that tears form in the corners of your eyes, but you just gulp roughly, feeling overwhelmed by it all.

"Clarke," you barely breathe out, your fingers clutching the metal of the phone. It becomes difficult to breathe, you gasp for air.

"Lexa? What's wrong?" Clarke's voice gives you strength. Just a little, a little more…

"I'm, I'm sorry," you apologize wholeheartedly, trying not to black out just yet. "I'm so sorry," the tears fall down your cheeks. The numbness starts spreading all over your body.

"Lexa? What happened? Where are you?" Clarke's voice is full of alarm. "What happened?"

"I just… You were the best thing that ever happened to me," by the time your fingers start feeling numb, cold, dead, you feel yourself drifting away, bit by bit.

"Lexa? Where are you? What's around you?" Clarke's voice gets even more desperate. "Please tell me," her voice shakes and you curse yourself for doing this to her. She doesn't deserve this.

"I'm in… I'm in my room, back at the dorms. God… Clarke, I am so sorry," the tears keep running down the sides of your face. "I didn't want to… You don't deserve this," you exhale.

"Oh God, what did you?" Clarke asks in a panic, her voice high. "Lexa? Lexa?"

"I don't… I haven't…" your grip on the phone seems to lighten against your will.

"Fuck! And of course I'm nowhere near the dorm. Shit!" Clarke's panic is evident with every syllable. "Lexa, I'm going to be there in about 20 minutes. Please don't…"

You try to hear it, hear the words she was going to say, but heavy silence falls down like a curtain and there's nothing left anymore.

* * *

You jolt and a violent gasp leaves your mouth. You gasp again, trying to suck up the oxygen, but with no success. Everything is dark, you can't see, but you feel that there's someone else in your room, if you're still there.

"Lexa," you hear Clarke's voice. "Oh my god… Lexa!" She screams your name.

You want to say something, you try, you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can't breathe, you struggle with breathing in oxygen into your unresponsive lungs, but it feels like it's in vain. You see spots of things around you; your eyes can't concentrate, so you have to close them before it becomes too much. You open them again to see a golden strand somewhere, the green of your curtain, the chestnut wood of your table, but it's all so unfocused, so unclear. It just feels likes splashes of paint on black paper. You feel more movement around you.

"Hello, 911?" You barely hear it, the faintest of words. "Yes, hello, I need an ambulance…" the sounds disappear again. In a second, you see Clarke more clearly, her eyes wide and her mouth moving, but everything is such a blur and it feels as if you went deaf.

"Can you be really quick?" The noise comes crashing down and you hear a sharp ringing in your ears.

You wince and squeeze your eyes shut, trying to make it go away, but it doesn't; it just becomes sharper. Everything hurts, your veins seem to pulse, your muscles are contracting, your head is going to explode any second now.

"I don't know what's happening to my girlfriend. Yeah, I'll try to..." the sounds switch off, the world is silent again.

"Clarke…" you don't hear yourself, you're not sure you even say her name, but it feels like your lips are moving so you give it another try. "Clarke…"

Clarke seems to hear your whisper; she puts her phone away and looks at you, cradles your head carefully. Her beautiful face is obscure, but you recall her every feature - the slope of her nose, the blue of her eyes, everything. The light hits her hair and it is golden again.

"I found you, Lexa," you hear her cry. "You'll be alright, you'll be fine," she clutches you to her chest and you faintly smell her favorite perfume. "The ambulance is going to be here any minute now," Clarke says.

Clarke's words are the last thing you hear before the darkness swallows you whole.

* * *

Too white, everything's too white and your eyes hurt. You stand in the middle of the space you're in, but it seems like there's no end to it. You take a step forward, but everything stays the same. There's nothing around you, you can't understand what this place is. Are you dead? Dreaming? Somewhere in between? What is happening?

"Hello," you shout into the void. "Hello?" You yell louder.

You walk around some more, realizing that there's nothing, really nothing. It's empty, everything's so empty, and the ringing in your ears reappears again, as does the pain.

The floor disappears and you fall for what it seems like an eternity.

* * *

You open your eyes and there's too much brightness, too much light. Is this the same whiteness? The same emptiness? Or are you somewhere else again, forgotten by time, lost in space? You close your eyes and try to breathe. Suddenly, the pain appears and your whole body feels as if it's on fire, engulfed by flames.

"Hello, Lexa," a voice says as your eyelashes flutter open once again. Every nerve of your body hurts. It hurts to breathe, there's numbness mixed with a sharp pain. You're disoriented to say the least. Where are you? Who's talking? What's going on?

"What, what…" you can barely speak, your throat feels dry. "What happened?" You ask, not sure if you'll get an answer; not sure, who you're talking to, if any of this is real.

"Later, Lexa. You need to rest some more," someone says. The voice is soft, laced with concern… Clarke.

"Clarke?" You manage to say as your head swims.

"You got me worried sick, I can't even…" you hear a sob escape her mouth.

"I'm no good, Clarke," you close your eyes, still under the influence of something you can't put your finger on. "I'm no good," you repeat as you relax into the warmness surrounding you.

"It's not…" she tries, but stops.

"I hurt you. Again," you say. You feel even drowsier, you're probably on meds.

"Sleep, Lexa. I'll be here when you wake up," Clarke's voice is somewhere on your right, barely a whisper, but you still manage to hear it.

"I'll take your word for it," you repeat the phrase from what seems like ages ago.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hey, sorry for being a bit late again, but here it is :) Thank you for writing comments, feedback, for letting me know how you feel about this story, for sharing your own stories, sending me asks. I'm gonna be extremely honest and say that all of this means the world to me. And you loving my story, well it's something I never expected. So thank you.**

 **Once again, a shoutout to my friends, especially Will because he edits all of this stuff and makes it readable and understandable :D**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Have you or have you not tried to commit suicide?" The psychiatrist asks you again, but you just ignore the question. You feel like you've had this conversation many times before, you feel as if it's the only thing that everyone is demanding to know now. As if the answer will magically help all of them to understand you better. It won't. It's getting tiresome and you want to leave, but that's quite impossible at the given moment. The white hospital room and the lights are too bright for you, you feel sleepy, your eyelids are getting heavier each second.

"I have not," you answer calmly for what seems like the hundredth time. "I have not," you repeat slowly. You're not sure who you're trying to convince, the doctor or yourself. But the fact that you're stuck in this hospital doesn't change. You want to get out of here, to not be asked tons of questions, to be able to break free from all these people that surround you. But you can't.

The doctors here do not believe what you say one bit; you see it in their dark and gloomy eyes. They think that either you don't really understand that you've tried to kill yourself, that you're denying it, or plain and simple – you're just lying about it. You do nothing to change their belief, you don't care that much. Anyway, you've been put under intense observation; the psychiatrist repeated that fact for a few times, so that even your numb and overly-medicated self had understood. What it means is that you can't do anything on your own; you can't even go to the bathroom alone. Even when you're alone in the hospital room, you know that the personnel, the nurses, are always nearby, checking up on you, peeking from around the corner to see how you're doing. You feel weird knowing that there are always eyes on you, no matter what you do; you just know that. That feeling makes you slightly uncomfortable, paranoid. You eat everything they give you with a spoon because they don't trust you enough to give you a fork, not to mention a proper knife. You might stick it in your neck after all and no-one wants that. You'd find it funny if you didn't find it pathetic and sad. You feel… Well, you don't. You're numb and apathy has taken over.

"Then how would you explain the painkillers and alcohol found in your stomach, Miss Woods?" He asks another question, the question you've already heard multiple times. These questions are so frustrating and annoying, mostly because you don't remember much. They also never seem to end. Forcing yourself to remember what accurately happened is like breaking the locks of a door that should stay closed.

The psychiatrist told you earlier that you were out of it for three days straight. You woke up with multiple tubes and IVs attached to your body, like a voodoo doll that has been pierced with lots of sharp needles. When you woke up, you were in a haze, heavily sedated, not even understanding where you were or who the people around you were. Other doctors have told you that they pumped your stomach of the meds and the alcohol. The tubes and IVs pumped vitamins and needed fluids into your body; they also stitched your wrist because the cut was really deep. After all, you've managed to cut into the nerve, that's why your hand went numb. Everyone seemed so proud that they saved you, but you couldn't help but feel the dread that settled into your stomach. You didn't try to kill yourself, but you realized that you didn't want to live either. You just… didn't care anymore. Even with your stomach empty, the first thing you did when you woke up was throw up in the container nearby.

"I had a headache," you say absent-mindedly as you stare through the window. The hospital is a fifteen minute drive from campus and its complex stands alone in the middle of a lush forest. You stare at the green of the tall pines, at the whiteness of the heavy snow. Is it still winter?

"A headache?" The psychiatrist seems surprised, taken aback by your answer. "Do you always down your painkillers with tequila, Miss Woods?" The sarcasm is evident.

This man with a sharp jaw, probably in his early forties, with his striped tie and stupid glasses, annoys the hell out of you right now. Because all of these questions seem so irrelevant, so unimportant to you. You just don't give a fuck anymore. You want to scream " _I don't care!",_ but your throat is dry and you're barely able to speak as it is. So you choose to not say anything for a while. You haven't tried to kill yourself. If you had, you'd have definitely put in more effort, you don't do anything half-assed. Yet still… You could have called Raven or Octavia, you could have called the hospital yourself. You could have gone to the campus administrator and told her you didn't feel well. But that would have meant dealing with a lot of questions you didn't want to be asked, that you didn't want to answer. And a lot of explaining to do as well. When you think about it, maybe subconsciously you wanted to die, for all of this to be over, but not being directly responsible for it, not playing a big part in your own demise. Your head starts pulsing as you throw a glance at the psychiatrist sitting on a chair nearby. Dying would be great right about now.

"Your body has been on the verge of shutting down because it lacked nutrients and vitamins among other things. Meaning, you have stopped eating," you see him stare at you from the corner of your eye, but refuse to look at him. "Not to mention sleep deprivation. Has this been an accident as well?" The calm of his voice pisses you off more than it should.

"No," you give in and turn your head to look right at him. "No, it hasn't. But I haven't done any of this in the hopes of getting myself killed if that's what you want to know," you close your eyes, still feeling dizzy from all the meds they're giving you.

"Then why have you done this?" A question worth a million bucks. But you don't know the answer, you just don't. Self-destructive tendencies? Feeling upset? Feeling suicidal? Not giving a damn anymore? Who knows?

"Can you just… leave?" He's getting on your nerves. It's his second attempt to get some answers and you still have none. You do not cooperate. His calm demeanor feels too fake for comfort right now, so you want him gone.

"I will leave you to rest, but I remind you once more that you're under strict observation for the next 48 hours or so. I'm merely doing psychiatric evaluation under suspicion of you trying to commit suicide," the psychiatrist gets up, a bunch of papers and a clipboard in hands.

"For fuck's sake, I haven't tried to kill myself!" You yell at him angrily, touching your pulsing temple with your cold hand.

"Your parents are here, as well as your friends. Would you like to see any of them?" He dismisses your words and adjusts his glasses as he heads towards the heavy white door.

"No," you slump back into the comfort of the hospital pillow and stare at the pines again. "I don't want to see anyone," you close your eyes. All you want to do is sleep.

"Understood," you hear right before the door closes and dreamless sleep takes over.

What a fucking mess you've gotten yourself into.

* * *

Your parents aren't good with masking their disappointment; you can see it in their eyes. They terrible at pretending that everything is fine, but it isn't, you all know it. They fuss over everything just to distract themselves. How the food they are giving you is terrible, how they're giving you too many meds, how it's unfair that you can't go home, those kinds of things. You don't really know which would be better – staying here or being at home with your parents. Probably neither.

"But you were fine when you were home on Christmas!" Your mom says and your dad just nods in agreement. "Did something happen later, when you got back? Did someone say something to you?" She really doesn't get it, your dad doesn't get it either. It's always bad, it never goes away. Your parents think that depression is like a flu, you treat it and it's all good later on.

"I wasn't fine, mom. I was never fine…" you try your best not to look at those glum and disappointed faces. It's not that they don't care; it's just that they don't know how to deal with this, even though you've been this way as long as you remember.

You talk to the psychiatrist every day because it's a part of your treatment. He doesn't annoy you as much as before, you've probably had a lot of pent up anger after the so called suicide attempt. He visits you every day in your hospital room. Sometimes you don't feel like talking and he just nods at you and leaves without a word. It feels weird when someone started asking questions no one cared to ever ask before. No one, but… You tell him about your parents, about Clarke, about life in the dorms and your studies. You're all but scratching the surface, how else could you start talking about it? The psychiatrist says that you have to start somewhere, even if it doesn't seem important to you. So you tell him bits and pieces - about your childhood, about your depression, about your feelings. You're not good at sharing, when you remember something particularly painful, your throat goes dry and you change topics. He doesn't say anything about it. But it still feels unreal, as if it's someone else telling him all of this, like it's someone else reciting your pathetic life story. It's weird really; you've said multiple times that your life was tough. But was it really? Your parents weren't drunks; you always had money, a roof over your head. So what was so unsatisfactory to you? The psychiatrist told you that the emotional welfare of a child is of equal importance. Maybe, probably. You don't know for sure.

* * *

Raven and Octavia come by one day. You hear the heavy door of your room open and you peel open your eyes to see dark brown hair. You remember Raven and her sad smile that day, you remember the look she gave you.

"Hey," they say softly and you stir, then carefully stretch a bit and sit up properly.

"Hi," you yawn as you cover your mouth with your hand carefully. The IV drip moves a bit forward to your bed, but doesn't fall as that one time before.

"Sorry, we'd have visit you another time if we knew you were asleep," Octavia says gently, the usual harshness in her voice gone now.

"No, it's fine," you blink hard and then focus your attention on them. "All of these meds are making me sleepy," you explain as Raven sits at the end of your bed while Octavia takes the chair near the bed.

"We've brought you some food, but we've left it at the nurse's station. How are you feeling?" Raven asks carefully and looks at you with concern. Octavia unbuttons her heavy coat.

"I've been better," your quiet raspy laugh echoes in the room, but Octavia and Raven do not find it funny. You know that, you're just trying to dissipate the seriousness a bit; you're so fed up with it, with everyone walking on eggshells treating you like you're made of glass.

"If I only knew… I'm sorry… I could have said something, but I didn't," you frown as Raven touches your knee and doesn't meet your eyes.

"Raven, what are you on about?" Octavia looks at her confused and Raven shakes her head.

"I met Lexa that day, in that shop nearby campus. I forgot to tell you. Probably because right after that I went to a gas station and met another acquaintance of mine," Raven says and turns to face Octavia. "I could have said something; I could have invited her over, talked her out of it, I could have done something, anything," Raven looks down at the tiles of the room, her hand not leaving your knee.

"It's not your fault," you comfort her because you know Raven. You know how even though she isn't, she feels responsible for this, in her own way. "Besides, you couldn't have done anything to help me. I was beyond help," you say dryly.

No one says anything for a while. Octavia and Raven both stare at the hospital floor tiles, you exhale violently and stare at Rave's red coat. She breaks the silence first.

"That's what I'm mostly upset about," she says still not looking at you. "That I could not help you. What friend am I if I can't help you?" She asks. You want to say that they both are your only friends, that you don't blame them. Blaming them would be stupid, immature, they did nothing wrong, they were always there for you. Why do they feel guilty in the first place? You don't really understand.

"Raven…" you try, but she raises her hand a bit and cuts you off.

"We suck, we're terrible friends, O," she turns to Octavia once more and Octavia nods in agreement. You still don't understand.

"That we are, I'm not even going to defend us. I'm sorry, Lexa," Octavia covers your hand with her. "We weren't there for you," she whispers.

"That's ok," you want to reassure them, to calm them, but it's not working. They both seem shaken and you feel even worse for bringing this upon them. You swallow roughly. "Stop blaming yourselves, you didn't do anything wrong. It's ok."

"It really isn't," Raven exhales sadly and shakes her head again. "You tried to kill yourself, Lexa. It's kind of a big deal," she says.

"You're not responsible for this, alright? You're not!" Your voice echoes again. "I did this to myself, me. I did this to myself. No one is responsible for my actions but me," you clench your fists, but Octavia's soothing fingers rub circles on the back of your palm until you relax a bit.

"Have you seen Clarke?" Octavia asks cautiously, as if Clarke's name is forbidden.

"No," you answer after a pause. "No, I haven't," you turn your head from them.

"Lexa…" Raven begins. "You know that's she's been coming here every day? The nurses told me, your parents told me, your shrink told me," she says as Octavia nods to emphasize.

"I just… Don't want to see her, ok? I don't, not now," you try to explain, but it doesn't sound convincing one bit. Instead, you stare through the window.

"She's your girlfriend. She wants to see you," Raven says.

"I know," you mutter under your breath, hurting.

* * *

"Absolutely not," he says simply, not even bothering to look at you, writing something down as usual. You just roll your eyes at the gesture, feeling annoyed.

"If you want me to bash my head into the walls until I bleed out, try me," you say, cocking your head to the side. "I will go back to my dorm after I'm released. And that's that."

"Miss Woods…" he tries, but you interrupt him.

"No, stop right there. Also, stop calling me Miss Woods, it's unnerving, I have a name," you say. "You want me to get better? Let me go back. I've been in this goddamn hospital for a week already and a new semester is starting soon. Missing out would really not make me feel better," you try your best to explain. You want to go to your dorm room, you want to forget.

"But your parents want you to go back with them," the psychiatrist says as he puts all of the papers aside. "You can afford to miss some of the lectures, you're smart enough to bounce back and not feel it," he then grabs the papers again and continues writing. You always wonder what he's writing there. That you're childish? Insufferable? Stubborn? Or basic stuff like what kind of meds you need and in what dosage.

"Hell no," you don't give up. "I will not go back there," you clench your fists in anger, fingernails digging into the skin of your palms.

"I know that it might feel like torture, especially after everything you've told me about your parents and your strained relationship with them, but you need to work this out," he takes off his glasses to clean them with a cloth from a pocket. "You need to deal with this."

"I've already dealt with this, it never changes. It's useless," you say to him. "They'll never change," your voice gets quieter as you shake your head. People don't change, they adjust at best, but they never change. Nor do you.

"Cutting yourself, indulging in alcohol is not the best way to deal with problems either," he puts the glasses back on and smiles a bit. You throw him an irritated look, then roll your eyes again and look away.

"At least I deal with this shit, one way or another. Unlike…" you stop mid-sentence.

"Unlike Clarke?" He asks unfazed and the hurt is back, a nagging feeling in your chest.

"Yes," you answer. "Unlike Clarke."

"You still haven't seen her," he says simply. "She saved your life," he points out the obvious.

"I really wish she didn't," the tiredness in your voice indicates that it's enough for today and he gets up to leave. You stare at the pines outside, the greenness of them seems to comfort you, soothes you.

The door closes. You groan as you take your head in hands, trying not to cry. You know you'll have to see her sooner or later. But not now, not now…

* * *

You're taken aback when she walks into your hospital room one day. You even lose the ability to speak for a few seconds, your heart starts racing and you feel like someone just threw every possible emotion at you all at once. You feel excitement, dread, anger… You feel everything and your skin burns because of it.

"I know you didn't want to see me. Your psychiatrist told me that, but he still let me in," Clarke says as she approaches you carefully and takes a seat. "I can be persuasive."

"I'm going to kill him," you stare at the white sheets of your hospital bed, avoiding Clarke at all costs. Avoiding her golden hair, her blue eyes, her… You hear her shift closer to you. "I'm going to kill that bastard," you say as you close your eyes.

"Lexa…" the blonde begins, but you already know what she's going to say before she speaks.

"Clarke, just… stop, ok?" You open your eyes and exhale loudly through your nose. "Let's just stop pretending I'm going to get better, because I'm not. Let me say what I want to say. First of all, I haven't tried to kill myself," you clarify, still not looking at her.

"I know," she says, but you find it annoying. She knows? Really? That's just bullshit.

"No, you don't. Second, I am no good, absolutely; I am a piece of shit, garbage. You don't want that. You don't deserve that," your voice breaks. "You don't want that," tears form in the corners of your eyes. When did you become such a cry baby? You hate crying, but it is all you seem to be doing these past few weeks.

"Don't tell me what I want," she says so quietly, you barely hear it.

"You want this? Picking up the pieces of what's left of me? Pacing through hospital halls?" you snarl at her, feeling agitated. "You don't, you really don't," you conclude angrily.

"Don't tell me what I want!" Clarke raises her voice. "I want you, it's _that_ simple," the blonde states as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. It just makes you even angrier.

"No, it's not!" You yell and shoot her a fierce look. "Shit won't go away just because you want it to. There is no magical wand that you can wave and say ' _Ta-daa!'_ and all of the problems will somehow disappear," your throat goes dry in seconds, but you don't care anymore.

"Lexa," Clarke reaches for your hand, but you shake your head and withdraw. "Please."

"Just accept it, that you'll never be happy with me," you don't recognize yourself or your own voice. It's as if someone else is talking and you can't stop it, can't stop the words that are being said. "We're just dragging this out," you look away once again.

"We can do this, Lexa," she says as she ignores your words and you almost believe her. You want to, but what you won't do is lie to yourself anymore. "We can do this," Clarke repeats, and it gets on your nerves.

But she doesn't get it, does she? Even now you're hurting her. Who says you won't try to commit suicide in the future? Who says that the cutting will stop? How can you promise her something good when you are not? You're submerged in water, you're drowning, lungs filled with liquid already. You won't ask her to drown with you, you just can't. And Clarke doesn't get it, she doesn't get that you're doing her a favor, that you're trying to…

"We can do this," Clarke says more boldly, but your body just starts shaking.

"Shut the fuck up, Clarke, just shut the fuck up," a sharp pain erupts in the left side of your head and you wince. You hear her talking, but you can't make out the words just yet.

"Your psychiatrist told me that you might feel worse before getting better," Clarke says after a pause. "I hope you'll want to see me one day. I hope you can…" the blonde whispers and you can't hear the ending of that sentence. After a few seconds she gets up and leaves.

You hope one day she'll understand that nothing good can come from associating with you.

* * *

The white walls of the hospital room depress you. You're in the middle of nothing; this is where you want to be. You're free to walk around; they say they're keeping you here until you get to your full strength again. Your body is still weak; you feel it once you start walking around more. Instead of visiting you, now you get to go to the shrink's office. You tell him about your encounter with Clarke, about how she doesn't get it. You wait for him to tell you how stupid you are, how destructive, self-centered you are, but her never does.

"I do not judge, Lexa," he says one day when you ask him about it.

"You still have to have an opinion," you try to provoke him.

"I do, but it is not my place to intervene," the shrink explains. "I don't want my advice or my opinions getting in the way of how other people think and feel. They should not become biased only because I'm a doctor and for some reason I should know better. Because I don't," he concludes, but you still do not feel content.

"That's… A very smart thing of you to do," you find yourself saying.

* * *

You've spent a week and a half in the hospital. It feels strange to know that you'll get out of here today. Your hospital room became like a bubble, shielding you away from the rest of the world. Now you have to go back and face it once again. Are you better prepared? You don't know, you honestly have no idea. You don't even know if you feel better than before.

"Lexa, after you're released today, I want you to come see me once a week," the psychiatrist says. "Can you do that?" He writes down the meds you'll need to take.

"I can," you answer.

"You need to start making amends with your parents. It won't be easy, you have a lot of grudges, but you need to let them go. Holding onto the anger will hurt no one but you. If you feel uncomfortable, uneasy, you have to let them know, don't keep it to yourself," he stops writing and looks at you.

"I know, you've told me this already."

"You need to solve your issues with Clarke as well," you wince at the sound of her name.

"I think we need to break-up," you tell him. "I think I'm not good for her," he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He keeps it to himself. As always.

"Take these twice a day, alright?" You nod. "And do please take care of yourself. Eat, sleep," you nod again and roll your eyes.

"Yeah," you say apathetically, still medicated.

"I'm serious, Lexa," he looks at you concerned, brows furrowed. "You have to put effort if you want to get better," his smile looks sincere.

"I know," you say as you wave goodbye and leave his office.

* * *

They all tiptoe around everything. Your parents, Raven and Octavia. They don't want you to go off the deep end again; they think you're too fragile. In their minds, you did try to commit suicide. No one believes that you didn't. You don't really seem to care what they believe in. You go back to the dorms, but before that, you go back to your hometown for a few days.

"How is your friend doing? Her name is Clarke, right?" Your mother asks you carefully. She doesn't know anything, she just thinks that you and Clarke argued over something and that's why you refused to see her when you were at the hospital.

"She's fine," you feel a lump in your throat because honestly, you have no idea. "She's fine."

"How did you meet her?" She asks while you're making yourself a sandwich on the counter.

"I've actually met her this semester, we had copyright law together. Even though she was friends with Raven and Octavia from our first year," you explain as you slice up the tomatoes. Your mother watches you with caution in her eyes. Oh right, a sharp object.

"She's a nice and thoughtful girl. And she seems to genuinely care for you. She came to the hospital every day while you were there," she says. "It was nice seeing Raven and Octavia, too. I remember how we met them when we came to visit you. Do you remember?" Your mother starts giggling.

"How can I not?" You laugh. "It was in my first year, you came to see how I was doing. They were the first friends I've made, probably the only ones. I remember that Raven and Octavia were so drunk from the party the night before, they didn't even make it to their own room. So they crashed at mine. And Raven was the one who opened the door for you," you smile widely.

"I was petrified. Some unknown girl who clearly had a hangover opened the door of your room. At first I thought that maybe we mixed up the rooms," your mom laughs as she opens the fridge and takes out the cheese, then gives it to you.

"Well, Raven seemed petrified as well," you smile some more. "She went on and on how she's made a bad first impression," you say as you remember that day very clearly.

You feel at ease after a very long time. Especially when your dad tells a funny story from work during dinner and you feel yourself laughing sincerely. They won't change, they will still say hurtful things, maybe they'll be more self-aware, maybe they won't. All you can do is change how you react to certain things. That's all. Sounds easy, but it isn't.

* * *

"Have you ever tried doing drugs?" The office seems too big, too dark from the usual brightness of your hospital room. You've been here only once before.

"Is this a suggestion or are you asking me?" You look around, read the backs of the books that are on the shelves. Psychology, philosophy, biology…Seems interesting.

"I'm asking," he's ready to write down your answer in the clipboard.

"I have, if you count weed as a drug," you slump into the armchair. "Once. Raven and Octavia dragged me to this party and someone offered me a blunt. I tried it, didn't like it though. Decided to stick to cigarettes," you say as an overwhelming desire to smoke washes over you.

"What about other drugs?" The doctor asks again.

"I haven't tried them," you raise your shoulders and shrug, not knowing how to answer this.

"Why?" He asks, intent on finding out the reasons of why you're not a drug-addict.

"That's a weird question to ask," you point out. "Because I'd get addicted. Because addictions always seemed to fascinate me. Addiction to coffee, to drugs, to cigarettes, to sweets…" you trail off.

"Why?" He seems truly intrigued by your answer. You're not sure you'll be able to explain.

"Because addiction is a spiritual form of enslavement," the explanation is clearly not enough. "Because then I'd have a reason, a pretext to say why everything is so fucked up."

"So why not then?" The shrink doesn't seem to understand.

"Because I want to be responsible for my own actions. I want to know that it was me who fucked up. Because I can only blame myself then," he seems to finally comprehend what you mean.

"Because then you'd have another reason to blame yourself, right? Another reason to hate yourself?" He takes the words right out of your mouth.

"Yes," you whisper.

* * *

Clarke's determined to get some answers. You almost want to close the door when you hear a knock and see her standing in the hall. Clarke talks and talks and talks some more, saying how much she misses you, saying how much you mean to her, but you don't hear any of it really.

"It hurts me to say that I want you to stay," you begin. "But I'll be alright if you go. So leave me. Leave me, Clarke," you tell her, you plead her, but she's having none of that.

"Not a chance," the blonde says, fire in her eyes.

"I'll ruin you; I ruin everything I touch. I…" you're lost for words. Why is she doing this? Why does she come back? Why? You wouldn't.

"No, you don't, Lexa," Clarke's voice is strong, decisive. The exact opposite to your mumbling and occasional silence.

"Clarke…" you think about how her name sounds like a prayer.

"I'm not going to abandon you, I won't. I've already said this - I'm committed, I accept you no matter what. I'm here, I'm going to trust you, I'm not keeping more stuff from you," she says and you think how it's too late, a little too late for all of that.

"It's not… I don't… I've let me down. Look at me, Clarke. What a mess I am," you turn from her, feeling as you might explode from all of this, from all of these feelings inside of you.

"You'll get better," she whispers. "I know you will," you hear her say.

"No, I don't think so," the reality hits you again. You honestly think you won't.

"Lexa…" she says your name so softly, so carefully that you close your eyes.

"I wanted to die, Clarke," you shatter everything with this sentence. You know you have.

"I…" the blonde stutters. "That's not true. You wouldn't have called me and…" she rambles, but you know that you've dealt her a blow. You wanted to die and you're not lying to yourself anymore. Not after all of this.

"Please, just leave…" you whisper. And she does, you hear the door being closed.

Sometimes the one you want is not the one you need.

* * *

At certain times you think that maybe you wouldn't have to deal with all of this if you were actually dead. You fucked up; you fucked up so badly you don't see how you'll ever rebound from it all. The people closest to you think you're going to break any moment now, you pushed your girlfriend away because you have issues you're not dealing with. Among other things.

* * *

"I wanted to die," you say suddenly, out of the blue.

"I thought you said you didn't try to commit suicide," He takes out his pen out of his blazer's pocket and takes the clipboard from the coffee table.

"I didn't, I didn't try to kill myself, doesn't mean I didn't want to die," you relax into the armchair and bite your lip. You want to be truthful; you don't want to lie anymore.

"Lexa, I think you need some time for yourself," he says. "Don't you think so?" He asks.

"I don't know." You answer. You really don't know.

"I think you need to figure some things out on your own," the psychiatrist suggests.

"Don't you think I'll get worse? Overthinking hasn't really helped me," you're skeptical.

"I think you'll be fine as long as you don't become too reclusive." Maybe, maybe he's right.

* * *

You think about a lot of stuff. You don't feel better. You don't know how you feel. You just know you can't do this without her. You need her. You need her, then you'll figure out the rest. You look at the mirror and think that you're an idiot. There are so many things you need to tell her, so many things. You don't know what will happen after you say what you want, but…

You need to see Clarke.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the wait, I was super busy, I didn't even have the time to write this chapter :/ But now it's here and I hope you enjoy it! Thanks for all the reviews, most of them are left by guests so I can't reply to them, but thank you for finding the time to voice out your opinions, it means a lot to me :)**

* * *

You really think you'd be braver, but you're shaking so hard, you can't even sit still. You walk around your room for what seems like the hundredth time, trying to distract yourself from all of these thoughts. Time seems to have slowed down; you count the seconds until you see her. Breathe in, breathe out. Why are you so afraid? It's only Clarke. It's only the person whose heart you probably broke, it's only her. It's only the person that carries yours, no big deal. There's a knock on the door and you feel like there's a lump in your throat, breathing becomes even more difficult, your stomach turns and you feel dizzy. It all seems so surreal; you can't help but think that it's all a dream. Though your bandaged wrist pulses with real pain and you figure out that it's now or never. You need to tell her so many things; you need to be honest, starting with that night because you know that Clarke still has so many unanswered questions. You take a deep breath and open the heavy wooden door. Clarke stands there, hair in a messy bun, light blue button up shirt and skinny black jeans. Your breath hitches because she looks so beautiful, so gorgeous, ethereal even. But the dark circles under her eyes and general tiredness indicate a lot of stress and many sleepless nights. You feel terrible because you know you're one of the causes of that, not to mention other things that Clarke has been dealing with that you don't know. She walks straight through you until she's standing in the middle of the room, never saying a word. Her every move spits anger and you close your eyes for a second before closing the door and turning to face her. You take a deep breath again. Now or never, huh?

"You wanted to see me?" Clarke breaks the silence first and crosses her hands on her chest.

"Yes," you whisper and gulp carefully. You've prepared tons of speeches; your mind came up with thousands of reasons, explanations. But as you're standing in the middle of the room, which for some reason suddenly feels unfamiliar, your mind goes absolutely blank. You look at this beautiful girl who means the world to you and pray that haven't fucked up too bad.

"Lexa?" The harshness in Clarke's voice is gone as you look straight into those blue eyes of hers. You don't understand what's going on because our body moves on its own accord, you don't command it anymore. It feels light, weightless and you don't seem to control your feet.

You lunge into Clarke as if it's the last time you'll get to do it. Your hands embrace her so tight that you think you're going to accidentally crush her. Your hands around her neck bring her closer to you and you bury your face in the bare space between her neck and shoulder. You wait for Clarke to push you away, to say coldly that it's not how to deal with things, but the words never come, you never hear them. After a few seconds, her hands find their way on your skinny waist, under your shirt and embrace you tightly. Your body starts shaking uncontrollably, but Clarke just rubs your back gently, never letting go.

"I'm so sorry," your tears stain her shirt. "I'm so sorry, Clarke," you sob.

"Shhh… We'll figure this out, alright? We'll talk it out," she kisses your temple softly.

"You probably hate me. How could you not? I've been terrible, I've hurt you so bad…" you whisper into the soft skin of her neck and breathe in her scent, her perfume, her everything.

"You did… You really did," she agrees and your heart aches.

"Clarke…" you repeat her name like a prayer. "Clarke…" you can't stop shaking.

You cry and cry until her shirt is soaked in your tears, but the blonde doesn't say anything. Clarke doesn't back away, doesn't try to wriggle out of your grasp, she just holds you. You have no idea how long you stand like that until your grip finally loosens and you manage to take a step back from her. It takes some more time to look her in the eye again and when you do, you see only the light in them.

Maybe you haven't fucked up to the point of no return. Maybe there's still hope. Maybe not.

* * *

"Have you eaten?" Clarke asks carefully, sitting in front of your little round table.

"I have," you answer shyly and look down at your feet. "Do you want some coffee?" You offer her and take a step towards the sink.

"I'd love to," she says and relaxes into the chair while you fuss over the said coffee.

You make the drink in silence, knowing that something is building up, growing, scared for the consequences, scared for the end result. You know you have to tell her, it's not the time to keep secrets, not anymore. You want to, you need to be as honest with Clarke as possible, it's the only way to salvage this relationship. If there's still anything to salvage.

"I wanted to die," you say as you set the cups of fresh coffee on the table and then take a seat yourself, trying not to act too nervous.

"I know, you've…You've told me," the blonde stutters and reaches out for the cup. "I still can't believe you tried to kill yourself," Clarke exhales and shakes her head.

"But I didn't try to kill myself!" You try to explain to her while taking a sip of the bitter liquid. "I didn't do any of that on purpose, as in trying to kill myself directly," you say carefully.

"But…" Clarke tries, confusion evident in her face, but you interrupt her by holding out your hand in from of yourself.

"Wait, Clarke. Please let me finish," she nods. "Not eating, not sleeping, even cutting myself, it's like my natural state, the self-destruction state, it wasn't abnormal to me. I got really drunk then, I accidentally cut into the nerve of my wrist. My mind couldn't comprehend what was going on, it was lagging so much. My mind was somewhere beyond this," you avoid her gaze as you try your best to recall what happened and how you've felt that time.

"And the painkillers?" She asks. "What about them?" Clarke tilts her head to the side a bit.

"I had a headache, and because I was drunk, I couldn't understand what I was doing," you know how ridiculous this sounds, you're not sure you'd believe something like this yourself. "I wasn't trying to kill myself, but let's say I wasn't doing anything to stop it. Even when I felt that I don't feel good, I didn't stop, I just pushed myself even further," you feel bare even if you're fully clothed. You tried so hard to ignore that you were so full of apathy when you almost died.

"Was it because you didn't care about yourself?" Clarke stares at the half-empty cup.

"Yes," you answer ashamed. "Because I fucked up, because everything was too much. I am a coward in a way… No, not in a way, I am a coward; I'd rather drown than stand up and face anything that's thrown my way. I run away," you shake your head.

Clarke's fingers grip the cup tighter, but her other hand, a bit hesitantly, reaches out for yours. She covers it with her warm one and you sit in silence for a while. You could pretend everything is fine; you could both ignore everything that happened, but that's not a way to deal with shit. You both need to acknowledge what you did wrong and stand up to it. You're trying to at least. You want to finally resolve everything like an adult, even if it's something scary, uncomfortable. You need to take responsibility for your actions and stop trying to hide behind everyone's backs.

"You are not a coward. You're just not good at dealing with shit, I'm not good at dealing with it either," her thumb rubs the top of your hand softly, cautiously.

"That doesn't excuse my behavior," you hear yourself say. "That doesn't excuse anything," you close your eyes.

"No," she says a bit coldly. "No, it doesn't," she retracts her hand and you miss it right away, you miss the warmth it emits.

"Things won't get easier, it won't be easy," you say to her, to yourself, trying to convince the both of you.

Things were never easy, huh? As long as you remember, things were never easy, not for the two of you. Maybe it was in the beginning when you didn't know better, but later everything went downhill. You try to remember when was the exact moment that everything went to shit, but you can't seem to remember. Two very complex personalities trying to survive in this world and not drown the other. You and Clarke tried your best to overcome personal challenges and help the other, but still, you both crashed and burn. Will you be able to get back up? To learn from the past?

"I need time," Clarke says quite abruptly as she stands up. "I need time to think, Lexa."

"I know," you say casually as if you've foreseen what she'd say. "I'll wait for whatever you decide," you stand up as well and accompany her to the door.

The smile on her face is small, sad, but it's a smile nevertheless and even when she leaves, your chest doesn't feel as tight as it used to.

* * *

You go to the hospital to see your psychiatrist once a week, just like you promised. You contemplated ignoring it, not going to see him a couple of times, but then you realized that you need to put some effort in getting better. But the thing is - you're not sure you feel better. Sometimes, you feel numb from all of the meds you've been taking, numb to everything around you. Sometimes, you feel overly emotional. And only sometimes you feel alright, like you're not being strangled by the world. While riding the bus, you think about your psychiatrist and how he seems alright. He's trying to help you even though you question some of his methods sometimes. But it's only natural. Sometimes, he annoys you and you think that you'd rather ignore meeting him for a couple of times. You know that it's his job; also, making you question things is a part of the healing process. The most difficult part is to express what you feel in words, you're not that used to it. Of course, there was Clarke, and you talked to her about most of the things that bothered you, but it still seems so difficult to just outright say why and how you're hurting. You have to say exactly how you feel and why you feel it, and sometimes, it would be so much easier to just sit in silence. Most of the time, the silence describes the way you feel best, but you need to remember that you need to play by the rules.

"How is your relationship with Clarke?" He asks after about a half hour talk. "Last time you've told me that you didn't break up," he recalls as he rummages through the pages of the clipboard.

"It's only been a few days, I'm being patient," you sink into the cool leather armchair. "And no, we didn't break up. I want to try and fix our relationship. If it's possible of course," you say.

"Are you ready for whatever outcome?" The psychiatrist takes off his glasses for a moment and looks straight at you.

"No," you say simply. "I'm not. I try not to overthink it," your explanation falls flat the moment it leaves your mouth.

"What I am worrying about, Lexa, is what your reaction may be if she rejects you," he puts the glasses back on. "I worry about how you'll deal with the news either way," his voice concerned.

"You're afraid I'll do something drastic," you realize what he's trying to say.

Why wouldn't you? You've cut yourself, starved, didn't sleep and in most of their minds – tried to kill yourself. So yes, why wouldn't you do something radical again? What probably annoys you the most is how they think that you only work in extremes. You've noticed their concerned looks when something bad happens, how your mother would glance at you occasionally, hoping you're not cutting yourself again, but having no way of knowing it for sure. Your dad asks how you are feeling about a dozen times a day and you know that he means well and cares, but it annoys you. Raven and Octavia would ask you something very casual, but still fear for how you'd answer, trying their best to understand how you feel and should they feel cautious about your answers and mood swings. How can you get better if people keep tiptoeing around you?

"Yes," he nods in agreement. "I fear for your safety," the psychiatrist says bluntly.

"I am not that desperate to cut myself after every bad thing," you roll your eyes at him.

"But this isn't a casual, everyday thing either, Lexa. You care for her, you care for this relationship and how everything will pan out," you look down because you know what he means.

"I don't know how I'll react, even if I brace myself for the worst, I don't know for sure how it will go," you say honestly. "Even if you know what's coming, you can never prepare for it," you try your best to find the words to describe it.

"That's… Incredibly mature of you to say, Lexa," he genuinely looks surprised. "But I want you to give me a call if you feel bad, if things go bad, etc. Do you understand?" He asks you.

"Yes," you nod in agreement.

"How have you been feeling in general? Do you feel better? What are you thinking the most about these days?" He barrages you with questions, a pen in his hand.

"I've been feeling alright," you answer. "But I don't know if I feel better. It's a weird feeling actually," you stop talking for a second and take a deep breath.

"Can you try to describe it, Lexa?" He adjusts in his seat and waits for you to explain what you really mean.

"It's like I'm in space and the time there does not exist. And I don't know when will the time start flowing again," you stop and think for a second. "I feel like it's a pause before something, like time has frozen. I'm really bad at explaining things," you laugh a bit and glance at the shelves full of books.

"Maybe you feel like this because you're waiting for Clarke?" He suggests. "Maybe before you get her answer you can't concentrate on other things?" This makes a lot of sense.

"I think so," you nod. "I think this might be the case," your voice is surprised because he just put the things you've been feeling into words.

"It's alright, Lexa," you see him smile. "You'll figure everything out, you need just a bit more time," he writes something down.

"I hope so," you smile a bit as well and get up to leave the office.

You hope you will. You hope you'll manage to face the world once the clock starts ticking again.

* * *

It's been a week and no word from Clarke. You start getting paranoid a bit, thinking she might never want to see you again. But no, you know Clarke; you know she wouldn't leave it like this. So you patiently wait for any news. You try to brace yourself, but you remember your own words and realize you can't get ready for her words, no matter what she says. A week passes and a new semester starts. You can't believe it, but you feel better now that the lectures have started. Who would have thought that you'd feel better by going to classes and seeing more people than usual? Maybe this has to do something with spending less time alone with your thoughts; you don't have as much time to overthink things. Besides, doing homework, going to classes is a great distraction. You need to get back on track and try your best. For yourself.

You hear the door open and close silently one night. You feel someone get in the bed with you. You smile when you feel hands wrap around your waist and you fall asleep peacefully.

* * *

You lie in bed with Clarke, today's lectures absolutely forgotten, sweet bliss while rolling around in the white sheets. Clarke's lips are near your ear, whispering all kinds of sweet things that your sleepy mind can't yet comprehend. Her hands wander and caress the skin of your waist, where your shirt has ridden up. You stare at the ceiling and keep thinking – what now? What happens now? What does it all mean? You still haven't talked that much.

"I missed you when I couldn't sleep. I missed you all the time to be honest. I missed your voice, your smile, your sad eyes. I missed your hair, the scent of your shampoo, the perfume you dab in the crux of your neck," you both lie in bed as Clarke decides to recite all of the things she missed about you. "I missed your cold hands and long legs, the warmth of you sleeping next to me," she whispers into your ear and you shiver at the affectionate tone of her husky voice.

"Clarke, I'm…" you turn to face her, but she doesn't let you with half of her lying on you, so you continue staring at the ceiling.

"I missed your laugh, your sense of humor," she doesn't stop. "I missed your wits, your smart mouth. I missed how excited you get when you see flowers, how disheveled you look right after waking up. Just like now," she giggles a bit and your lazy smile gets wider.

"Clarke…" you close your eyes, give into the warmth that is her. You find her hand on your waist and you lace your hands together, doing so while smiling.

"I missed your moans, how your back would arch when you were close. I missed your expressions at your release, how your mouth would be agape, your erratic breathing," she says and you feel too close to the sun, burning, yearning. You finally manage to turn on your side and face her.

Clarke's blonde locks are messy and her eyes are still somewhat sleepy. You can't help but think that she's the most beautiful girl you've ever seen and nothing could change that. Your right hand caresses her soft cheek and you tuck a strand of blond wild hair behind her ear. You kiss her. Once, twice, another peck. You kiss her nose, her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids.

"I missed you too," you arch into her lips to kiss her again, this time – more deeply.

* * *

You thought everything would be fine. And it was, wasn't it? But no, no. Progress is an illusion as you stand in the bathroom with a sharp razor blade in your hand. Do things ever get better? Or are we always stuck in a dysfunctional cycle we can't avoid? Shit gets better, shit gets worse. The razor hasn't yet touched your skin, but you feel the burning need of it to do so. Clarke is just a few feet away, she's in your room, listening to music and making dinner. The thing is, you don't even understand what prompted this, you were fine one second, and the next you just feel that the whole world fell apart again. You can't understand how something like this can happen. Clarke didn't tell you anything bad, nothing bad happened today, you didn't even think about anything negative, and still. Yet here you are, clutching the razor blade and trying not to make a sound that would indicate that you're doing something wrong. Your left sleeve of the sweater is rolled up and you stare into the mirror. You remember that night, the darkness within you, the loneliness, the pain. It even seems that you taste the alcohol and the painkillers, you feel like you'll throw up any minute. You glance at your bandaged wrist; you remember the stitches, the blood, the hurt. You remember Clarke's terrified face and you realize that you don't want her to experience something like this ever again. With the razor blade still in hand, you carefully unlock the bathroom door. The second that the blonde sees you, her face turns pale and she puts down the spices that were in her hands.

"Clarke…" you mutter quietly. "Clarke, help," you say as the hand that holds the razor blade doesn't feel like yours anymore, it seems that it doesn't move even if you want to.

"Lexa, put the blade down," Clarke says calmly. "It's ok, don't worry, everything is fine. Just put it down," she tries her best not to panic even if her eyes are wide.

"I…" you try to say something, but can't seem to formulate a normal and coherent sentence.

"Lexa," the blonde repeats. "Put. The blade. Down," Clarke says slowly.

You look at your hands and you notice that they're shaking. Your left hand goes numb. Your eyes are wide open in panic because you feel like you've turned to stone – you can't move. What will Clarke think of all of this? That you wanted to harm yourself in secret again? That something happened and prompted this? Your mind races and it seems like centuries have passed.

"Do you want to talk about it? Let's talk about," she snaps you out of this as Clarke gently takes a step closer.

"Take it away from me, Clarke," you manage to say as you freeze again. "Take it," your hands shake even more, you don't feel your left hand.

Clarke warily comes closer and takes your hand, then carefully takes the razor as to not cut you accidentally. She then goes back to the bathroom to put it away, if not to toss it in the garbage bin. You stand rooted in one spot still unable to move. After a few minutes, you feel her embrace you from behind, gluing her body to yours. The second she does, you feel lighter, better and it seems that you can move and talk again.

"Thank you," you whisper and Clarke nuzzles into your long and wavy hair. "I don't know what came over me," you put your hands on top of hers, gingerly rocking you both back and forth.

"Do you want to talk about it? Did something happen? Was it something I said?" Clarke's voice is concerned, but you just shake your head slightly.

"I don't know, Clarke," you say honestly. "I don't know what came over me. But nothing bad happened, I swear. And it's not because of you. I really don't know what came over me," you exhale heavily.

"It's ok," she carefully kisses the back of your neck through your hair. "It's ok," she whispers again.

You turn around to hug her and she holds you tightly. You breathe in her scent and in time you calm down.

* * *

"Clarke, do you believe I can get better?" You ask her one day suddenly.

"What prompted this question?" She yawns as she stops reading a book in bed.

"I mean, do you honestly believe it?" You continue eating the breakfast you've made. "Do you really think I can get better just like that?" You take a bite of the buttered toast.

"I don't think you can get better just like that, it takes some time," Clarke puts the book on her chest and thinks. "I think it takes a lot of effort too. I think it takes a lot of effort from you, and from the people that surround you," the blonde yawns again.

"I see," you sip on the orange juice. "But how do I not ruin others?" You ask her.

"What do you mean, Lexa?" Clarke stretches a bit and then sits up to see you better.

"Do you know that saying? What was it again?" You try to remember. " _Be careful when trying to fix a broken person, you may cut_ _yourself on their shattered pieces_?" You quote.

"You're not broken," Clarke says without even turning her head.

"I think I am," you shift in the chair. "I think I am," you repeat again.

"You're being too hard on yourself, Lexa," Clarke carefully puts down the book on the bed and comes closer. "I think you need to think less about how things can go, and let them go their own way," the blonde sits on your lap as her hands find their way around your neck.

"I know, but I can't," you brush a few locks away from her face. "My mind is always racing, thinking, coming up with strategies," you shift again so your leg doesn't go numb.

"We will find a way," Clarke kisses you and you get lost in her kiss. "You'll be ok," she gets up, takes your hand leads you to bed.

* * *

"How are you doing? I hope everything is alright?" Raven asks, and you know that she sincerely cares; it's not just her trying to pretend she wants to help and be a better friend for you.

"It is," you say as you sit down at the table. "More or less, I guess," you laugh.

Raven came by in the morning, before lectures for a cup of coffee. Clarke was already gone by the time Raven came to your room. It felt strange; you're somewhat used to seeing Raven somewhere else, in her dorm room, in the coffee shop, at the university. But you're glad she took the time to come over.

"How is Clarke?" Raven takes a sip. "How are you guys communicating? I hope you're not keeping stuff from each other again, are you?" She looks at you expectantly.

"I think we're good," you put some sugar in your cup. "Where's Octavia by the way? Haven't seen her in a while," you knit your brows together.

"She went to see her brother Bellamy a few days ago, she'll only return today," Raven explains.

"Ah, I see," you say. "I wondered why I haven't seen her anywhere," you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, that's one twisted child. Not to mention that she's missing out the lectures, which I know, she'll later ask for me to explain. But whatever. Do you think you'll be alright with Clarke? Things haven't been easy for the two of you," Raven asks hopefully.

"I don't know, I'm not sure I can answer something like this," you stir the coffee and take a sip. You really don't know, it's not a question you can answer right away.

"Reasonable. But I know you will be, you both have each other," she smiles at you. "You'll be fine," Raven takes another sip.

"How is Finn?" You ask her. You haven't seen Raven in a while too, so you want to know what is going on in your friend's life as well.

"He's great, I spent quite a lot of time at his hometown during the winter break," she says. "Octavia has spent a lot of time at Lincoln's too, though he lives closer. Our room is a mess, I don't know how we didn't get thrown out of the dorm," Raven starts laughing.

"I honestly don't remember the last time I stopped by your dorm room," you try to recall the mess that Raven's been talking about.

"Oooh, we need to fix that right away. We can make a movie night, what do you think?" The girl gets excited. "The four of us, some popcorn, some soda or beer. I think we need to spend some time together," Raven states as she puts the empty cup down on the table.

"I think it would be awesome," you agree. "Maybe some time next week?" You suggest.

* * *

The movie night goes better than you could have ever hoped for. You make some popcorn, Clarke buys some snacks, and you both go to the dorms that are in another building, not that far from yours. Your mouth flies agape when you see how clean it is (Raven and Octavia probably worked their asses off for this) and you all just hug and laugh. The last time the four of you had so much fun together was ages ago, before shit went down. Clarke gives you a bottle of beer and as you kiss her cheek, Octavia makes a disgusted face, then laughs loudly. You all watch some terrible movies and later fall asleep on the floor.

You all wake up with a terrible headache that doesn't go away until the next day.

* * *

"I'm sad we don't have any lectures together this semester," Clarke frowns.

"Well I'm glad, you'd distract me," she rolls her eyes at you and you just shrug.

"What?" You laugh. "I'd just stare at you and not pay attention to the classes," you tell her as she crosses her arms on her chest. You slightly kick her under the sheets.

"You never pay attention either way, genius," she pretends to be angry and turns her head away. "But you always do better than like all of the class. It's not fair," she knits her eyebrows and purses her lips, which just makes you laugh even more.

"You're not stupid either, Clarke," you nudge her a bit. "For a blonde that is," you laugh again and she lunges into you.

"You don't mean that, say that you don't mean that or you'll sleep on the ground," Clarke starts tickling you and rolls over so she can pin you down with her weight, but you avert her.

"Why are you always threatening me in my room and especially in my bed, Griffin?" You try to dodge her fingers as you both fall on the ground with a thud, though Clarke doesn't stop tickling you.

"Because you say the meanest things," she finally pins you down to the ground.

"You don't mean that, you love me," you say and stop wriggling, realizing just what you've said.

Clarke stops as well, though your hands are pinned to each side of your face and Clarke's hovering above you. Her face softens after a few seconds and your heart starts beating again when you see her smile widen.

"I do, I do love you," she playfully nudges your nose with hers.

"I… I love you too, Clarke," you feel her grip lighten and you grab the collar of her shirt to smash your lips together.

* * *

Soon. You just know it, soon something bad will happen and you'll have to find a way out of it. Also, you know that Clarke will soon open up about how she has been feeling since the day you allegedly tried to kill yourself. You know it, you know it's brewing and you patiently wait for all of it. But what she says one day is not what you expected.

"My dad's health got worse," Clarke says suddenly and your knees go weak in seconds.

"When? Is he ok?" You ask the blonde carefully, a lump forming in your throat, your body shaking. Is he alright? Did something happen? Why did his condition worsen?

"A week ago. And he's alright for now," Clarke says casually and you give her a look of disbelief.

"A week ago? I thought we're not keeping any secrets anymore!" Your voice is loud and clear and Clarke just closes her eyes for a bit. If this goes on again then you both really have no chance.

"I'm not keeping anything from you, I promise," the blonde whispers, her head in her palms. "It was when you took the razor blade again. Telling you this at that moment would have been nonsense. It would have been very insensitive of me," Clarke says angrily in defense as she shakes her head violently.

"There will never be _the right time_ , Clarke," you shake your head too, disappointed. "Stop putting me above yourself and your feelings. I thought we've already discussed this," you feel like you've just been dragged at least a hundred of steps back. You can't believe this.

Silence falls heavily and neither of you say anything for a couple of minutes. You think about how progress is just an illusion again. Will it be just like this from now on? I didn't tell you because you did that, I didn't tell you because it wasn't the right time and so on?

"I'm sorry, I promise this was the last time. I swear," she says and moves towards you, eyes full of hope. "Please don't get angry," Clarke whispers into your ear as she hugs you tightly.

You think how it's difficult to get better right away. It always takes a lot of time. You can't demand for things to get better at once, you can't get better at once yourself. You also can't demand for Clarke to change her ways right away, it's not realistic. You need time, the both of you, to adjust, to manage to work it through, to learn. Your mind eases up a bit.

"It's alright," you caress her hair. "It's alright," you whisper into her ear.

Is it really? Or do you both just keep deceiving yourselves?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Once again, sorry for being late! But it's finally here :) I cannot thank you enough for your reviews, opinions, stories and asks, they honestly mean a lot to me. Also, I want to say that the next chapter will be the last one so yeah, my story is coming to an end. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **As always, a big thank you to Will for editing, what would I do without you.**

* * *

Sometimes you think how wonderful it would be to run away. How magnificent it would be to disappear into thin air, go far far away from this place. Just pack your things, get to the airport and buy a one way ticket to anywhere (you'd pick at random, you know it). You could start anew, run away from everything and everyone, bask in the sunlight of a new city, a new home. You could find new people, you could present yourself the way you'd want. They would love you, that's for sure. You could forget about the depression, everyone would think that you're fine, everything's fine. These new people wouldn't think that you're some little girl, some kind of freak who's playing with death all of the time, sowing the seeds of destruction everywhere. And you could always leave if you wanted, pick a new destination, choose another city, another country, even another continent. You yearn for a new beginning, for a new place where no one knows who you are, where no one can hurt you because you don't know them either. But you feel sad for reasons you can't understand. Would it really be better? It would take a lot of time to get closer to people, and you figure that you probably wouldn't feel like you belong, either. A different country – different socialization, different views on foreigners, different lifestyles, different everything to be honest. You could woo them with your brilliance (an intelligent person is intelligent everywhere, wouldn't you say?), but it's a bit superficial to think that. You think about how you have nothing else to offer and it makes you even sadder. This tiny room you spend so much time in seems so small; you're barely able to breathe. It's suffocating you with its stale air. You shift a little to lie on your left side and stare at the furniture of the room. Everything seems bland.

Your thoughts once again wander to Clarke. You have to try your best for her, she deserves the world and you better give it to her. Still, you've hurt her beyond belief; you've hurt each other multiple times. Will it always be like this? Treading the waters carefully, checking multiple times to see who breaks first? Sometimes you wish you were easier to love. Sometimes you wish you were a simpler human being to begin with. It is one thing to love someone, and completely another to be able to deal with their bullshit. You slowly stand up and walk around the room, breathing erratically, still feeling sleepy. It feels like you have way too many emotions. And they do not fit inside of you; it's as if your body is too small to contain them. So it's that kind of day, huh?

When life gives you lemons, grab salt and tequila. And that's what you do.

* * *

You've been in this room for many hours, way too many hours. You think that you'd grown more accustomed to it, but no. You still feel highly uncomfortable. Maybe because the room has no life? Just like a hospital room doesn't. Maybe it's because there are no positive emotions here, only memories that leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. You always feel very dirty here, like you need a shower, like everything you've just said is right beneath your skin and you need to scrub it off.

"Lexa, let me be frank," the psychiatrist says and snaps you out of it. "I think that you're doing too well," he takes off his glasses and cleans them against the light of the room. Say what?

"I'm doing too well?" You think that you've misheard it. Maybe you did? "And that's a bad thing how?" You don't really understand what's so weird about it.

"I think you're suppressing a lot of your feelings," he shifts in the armchair a bit. "Either that, or you're ignoring some things, emotions, triggers. Maybe even lying," he says dead on staring at you. Lying? What for?

"Let's get this right – I'm not lying, I don't see the point in that," you start. "If I wanted to pretend I'm fine, I'd just stop going to these therapy sessions," you explain to him in an icy voice. How dare he accuse you of this? You've been trying your damn best not to say " _fuck this_ " and never come here again. You've put a lot of effort into coming here every week.

"What I meant to say is that something is not entirely right, something doesn't feel right and I can't put my finger on it," he exhales loudly and stares at the red carpet for a second. The psychiatrist closes his eyes, then opens them, all the while trying his best to find the words to express what he wants to say.

It's weird. First you're a basket case, then you're doing too well. Why is it not possible to heal and try your best? Is it impossible to get better in a little amount of time? Or is this some proven psychological theory? Maybe your brain is tricking you into thinking that you're ok? You think that this is some kind of next level bullshit. What's your real diagnosis then, oh dear doctor?

"I still don't understand why it's a bad thing," you whisper as you sit up straighter. "Don't you think I'm putting a lot of effort into getting better? Maybe that's why I'm not cutting my veins every day, hm?" Your voice gets heated and angry.

There's a pause. A long one. The longest you've ever experienced with him. And you don't know how to feel about it, he always has something to say, all the time. But not now. You don't know if you've pissed him off or if he's just thinking. A part of you wants to get up and go, slam the door shut and never return. He can't just brush your progress aside; you've worked so hard to get better! You smooth out your green T-shirt and wait for him to say anything really. It takes a few more minutes.

"Lexa, can I ask you a question?" He finally says, looking up at you.

"You're going to ask it anyway, so go for it," you roll your eyes.

"Who do you try to get better for? Is it Clarke, your friends, your parents?" He asks and catches you completely off guard. Wait, what does he mean?

"What do you mean?" You stutter a bit, but keep your head up high.

"I think you're trying to get better for everyone around you. Everyone except yourself, that is," he concludes as he takes a pen out of his jacket's inner pocket and writes something down.

And? Is that so wrong? Wishing to be less of a nuisance to people around you? Less problematic? You want your parents to think that you're doing ok; you want Raven and Octavia to stop worrying about what they say and how they word it. You want Clarke to finally catch a break; you want to stop hurting her. Why is it wrong to try to get better for people that surround you? It's selfless! And it's the right thing to do nevertheless.

"You have to want to get better for yourself, not other people. You can't put everyone in front of you and think that that counts as love," the psychiatrist continues. "Well, it does in some way, but you have to live your own life. If these people love you, they will never leave you," he looks straight at you, but you have zero idea what he means.

"I don't… I don't follow," you say confused. "I don't understand," you honestly don't.

He takes his time to look at you, maybe he thinks that you're lying or playing dumb. But you really don't understand what he means; you have no idea what he is referring to. Did you miss something? Maybe you didn't hear what he said before all of this?

"Take the time to think about it, Lexa," he stands up and you do too. "Come back here when you figure it out," he accompanies you to the door and nods.

You stand outside the room in a corridor, still not understanding what the hell just happened. You leave with more questions than answers, confused beyond belief.

* * *

You sit comfortably in a coffee shop near the campus, your favorite drink in front of you, taking your time to relax. It's a place where you feel good at. There are always tons of people here, but they do not intimidate you, you know most of them anyway. The barista that works here has a great taste in music, you discuss the topic whenever you come and buy coffee. It's the place where you feel most comfortable alone, but you never feel lonely. You glance at the clock and at the same moment the doors open. Then you see her.

"Octavia! It's so nice to see you," you hug her tightly and she does the same, her leather jacket wet from the rain. "It's been a while," you laugh and Octavia raises her shoulders guiltily.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," she sits down and takes off the wet jacket, hanging it on the corner of her chair. "I've had a lot of shit to take care of, family things. That's why I haven't been around," she looks around the coffee shop and waves at someone.

"Did something happen?" You ask, concerned as you take a sip of the coffee.

"No, no, don't worry about it," Octavia laughs as she drinks half of the cup you bought her in one gulp. Some things never change, do they?

"Well, you're my friend, I tend to worry," you give her a look and a smile.

"It's nothing, really. Just my parents and brother finally met Lincoln," she laughs and ties her hair in a messy ponytail.

"Wow, really? How did it go?" You ask surprised. "You have to tell me," you sit back and take another gulp of the warm liquid. The coziness of the coffee shop lets you forget about the terribly windy, and now rainy, weather outside.

"It went well," she leans in closer and smiles. "Really well, it's weird. My parents loved him. Though my brother Bellamy looks at him suspiciously, but I guess it's some big brother thing, huh?" Octavia laughs and takes a second gulp, finishing the cup of coffee. You just know she'll go order another one in a bit.

"It's great," you're honestly happy for her. "And Lincoln is great too, so it's natural for them to like him," you explain. You've met Lincoln multiples times, and even though he might look intimidating, he's probably one of the kindest and gentlest people you know.

"Talking about parents meeting significant others, have you met Clarke's?" Octavia stands up and takes the wallet from her bag. "Be right back, I'll get some more coffee, do you want another one perhaps?" You shake your head and she goes to the barista, leaving dirty footprints on the floor.

No, you haven't met Clarke's parents; you're terrified of the idea. What if they'll hate you? What if they already hate you? What if they think that their daughter is hanging out with some psycho loser? You'd be afraid to say something inappropriate, look too cocky or too insecure, too smart or too dumb. You want them to like you, yes, but you're frightened of what the consequences will be if they don't. And you know much it would mean to Clarke.

Octavia brings you a croissant and you try your best to explain why you haven't met Clarke's parents. In explaining this to her (another city, no time to visit, loaded with homework), you leave out the most significant part – that you're afraid beyond belief, because it would be real, too real. It's not that you're hiding your relationship with Clarke; you think that everyone in campus already knows that you're together. But still, meeting her parents – it's a huge step.

And you're not sure if you're ready for that.

* * *

February flashes by in what seems like seconds and finally, spring comes. With a lot of rain and wind that is. The weather weirdly affects your mood, you feel strangely melancholic most of the time.

"Why?" Clarke asks one day.

"I don't know, maybe it's because the world seems sad?" You say.

"The world seems sad?" The blonde doesn't get it. "What do you mean?"

"Because the sky cries and my heart cries with it," you explain.

You haven't seen your psychiatrist for a while, you still haven't figured out what he meant and you want to go see him prepared, with answers. All that's left to do is to find them. But why do you keep thinking that you won't like what you'll discover? Like there's something foul and dark underneath it all?

* * *

You've grown accustomed to the Sunday brunch, you love it, it's probably your favorite part of the week. It's the day when you and Clarke really sleep in and let yourselves wake up late. Then you both make food and coffee in your pajamas and eat it lazily, in no rush whatsoever. It's a day of laziness and relaxation and after a busy week, it's the best thing you could hope for.

"I want you to meet my dad," Clarke says abruptly and you almost choke on your coffee. "And my mom too, of course," she looks at you while putting butter on her toast and taking a bite.

"Yeah?" You suddenly feel like all the bravery you've ever had dissipated in seconds. "You really want that?" You scratch your nose absentmindedly, not knowing what to say or do. You want to be sure, you want Clarke to be sure because there's no way back after that. Suddenly, it gets too hot in the room, too intense.

You think back to the conversation you had with Octavia a few weeks back, how you're mortified of meeting Clarke's parents, how you didn't know what you'd say, how you'd act. Maybe that conversation was a sign of what's about to happen, you don't know. You just think that in a way, everything is happening too fast and you're not sure how you feel about it.

"I'm sure," the blonde exhales as she puts down the knife, then takes out a slice of cheese from the packet and puts it on the toast. "I really want you to meet them. And they really want to meet you, too," she smiles as she puts her warm hand on top of your ever freezing one. You force a smile.

"Have you told them about the…" your throat suddenly goes dry and itchy. "About the…" you stumble and stop, stare at your unfinished toast for a while.

"A bit, but don't worry," Clarke puts her hand on your shoulder and you turn to face her. She looks at you in awe, as if you're the one who created the world, the one who commands the sun to rise and the stars to shine. She looks at you like you're the most important person in the world. You hope that the same is reflected in your eyes as well. Your chest doesn't feel as tight, the sudden anxiety now gone and forgotten.

"Don't they think that you're just sleeping with some psycho lunatic?" You ask her seriously while pouring her some more coffee and she slaps your hand.

"You're not a psycho lunatic," Clarke gives you a stern look and giggles a bit.

"Maybe not, but I'm sure that they're not happy that you are sleeping with someone mentally unstable," you say and kiss her nose.

"I think they'll be happy with you, just don't give them all the juicy details," Clarke winks and you feel how your face turns beet red in seconds.

* * *

You pop a few blue pills into your mouth and take a generous gulp of the running tap water. The doctor said to take two on "rainy days" and it's been one hell of a day, full of presentations, turning in assignments and other university shit. Still, no matter the workload, it keeps you busy, also less time to overthink everything. You yawn loudly as your mirror self does the same. You think about how it probably doesn't get better than this, does it? The pills don't make you happier, you just don't feel anything at all, most of the time that is. You feel numb, sometimes even emotionless, like a robot whose batteries suddenly stopped working. Maybe these pills do not suit you, maybe it's a side effect, maybe you need more time. Or maybe you're broken beyond repair. You shake your head as you turn to the room in the hopes of making more coffee for you and Clarke. She should come by any minute now because she has only a few lectures on Thursday and they finish early.

You wait for the kettle to boil as you stare through the dirty window. Relapse is always just around the corner; you can feel it in the air. You look through the window and watch how the world loses its meaning and colors. The sky is grey, the pavement, the streets... Most of the snow has melted into tons of puddles that scatter the campus. The outside world looks like an ocean, trying to swallow you whole. And you'd let it, most of the time.

"Lexa," you didn't even hear Clarke come in. "What are you doing?" The blonde asks as she puts down her bag on the floor, near the chair she usually sits on.

"Nothing, just staring outside, thinking how the weather is shit," you mutter as you turn off the kettle. You try to remember how long it was boiling, but you can't. Suddenly, a feeling of hopelessness washes over you and you feel sick, tired. "Do you ever think about the end of the world?" You ask her and once again, Clarke doesn't understand what you mean.

"The end of the world? Lexa, is something wrong?" She asks, frightened. You return to the window, don't even turn to face her. You keep gazing into the sky.

"Do you ever think about how fucked up everything is?" You ask her and you realize that you've already did, some time ago. Or is it déjà vu? Maybe something else entirely? You don't know. What you do know is that your knees suddenly feel weak and your head feels light.

"Lexa, what's wrong? Tell me," You remember the last time you had this conversation, you remember Clarke's pleading voice. If everything just keeps on repeating itself, maybe this cycle is a never-ending one? Infinite possibilities and you still go back to where you started. The illusion of progress, the illusion of constants and variables. In the end, everything remains the same, doesn't it?

"Everything is," you whisper the answer as you black out.

* * *

You wake up in your bed, confused and with a terrible headache. For a while, you don't even understand where you are. Only after some time do you figure out that it's your dorm room.

"How are you feeling?" The blonde asks as your vision is blurry, the bed feels uncomfortable and you feel like you'll throw up any second.

"Like shit," you answer honestly as you reach out for her and Clarke takes your hand into hers. "What happened?" You ask her as you turn in bed, flopping on your back.

"I don't… I don't know," she says. "You said how wrong everything is and then blacked out," you finally manage to look at Clarke and her face is as pale as a sheet of paper. You figure that you don't look any better yourself, probably even worse.

"I took two pills and then everything started spinning, I don't know why," you lie down again as Clarke sits on the side of the bed, lacing your fingers.

"Wait, two? Aren't you supposed to take just one?" Her voice breaks a bit and you hear the accusing undertones

"You think that I'm abusing my medicine, don't you?" You ask her straightforward and give her a look, then sigh loudly.

"I don't, I just don't know how many of them you should take at once," Clarke's voice gets angrier. "Maybe you need to take only one, how should I know," she shrugs.

"From one to two. God, Clarke, stop thinking that I'm trying to ruin everything," you cover your forehead with your hand in defeat. You're doing better, you're not trying to hurt yourself, you're not trying to overdose or something.

"I don't think that, don't be ridiculous," the blonde says. "I'm just worried, that's all."

"Worried," you repeat the word. "Yeah, it's probably because I had a hellish day. I didn't eat that much and must've probably been overtired," you try to explain and not make a big deal out the situation, not to escalate it.

"Did you eat breakfast?" She asks, and you remember that you didn't. You're not sure whether you should lie or tell the truth. You choose the latter.

"No," you answer honestly. "I didn't want to," you cover your eyes with your fingers.

"Lexa," Clarke shakes her head hopelessly. "I thought that we talked about this," she says.

"We did and I'm doing all the stuff that you've told me," you move your hand and look her in the eyes. "I just didn't have the time today; I had to make sure that all of my presentations were good and that I didn't forget anything," you wonder if you'll be able to convince her that you didn't mean for this to happen, that it was accidental. After a while, Clarke's gaze softens and she dishevels your hair a bit.

"Good. Want me to make you something to eat? Cause I'm hungry myself," she starts to get up, but you don't let her, you pull her closer. Then you slowly and carefully sit up and kiss her. Then you kiss her again and bury your head in her chest, kissing her collarbone in the process.

"Let me help you," you say as Clarke kisses your temple gingerly.

You think that you could have fucked up worse.

* * *

The hospital is busy, hectic and loud. The white walls remind you of the hospital you've were in not that long ago. The thought makes you shudder. Clarke borrowed Raven's car again and you both drove to see her dad. You felt nervous and could not stop fidgeting in the car, feeling lost, afraid of what Clarke's parents will think of you after your displays of depression and suicide. Not to mention the still pink scars on your forearms. Maybe they will say that you are not worthy of their daughter. Maybe they just won't like you and there will be nothing you could do about it. You don't like it when there are too many possibilities; you like to get a head start like you always do. Now you're just going to meet strangers and you have no idea how they feel about you.

"What if they hate me?" You asked her at the stoplight, nearing the hospital. There was a feeling of inevitability, that somehow this meeting will have a higher meaning, affect you in some way. This made you even more terrified.

"They won't," the blonde said. "They never hate anyone," she turned her head to you slightly and smiled.

"There's always a first time for anything, Clarke," you said as you felt lost in the streets you've never seen, feeling anxious because of the upcoming meeting.

"Lexa, babe, stop being paranoid," Clarke laughed. "They will love you. I'm sure of that."

You both brought some fruits, water and other things you could give her dad. Your hands shake as you step into his quiet hospital room.

"Dad!" Clarke excitedly shouts. "I came to visit you. And I finally brought my girlfriend," she points at you as she goes to give her father a kiss on the cheek.

Jake Griffin had a light complexion to begin with it seems, but now he was even paler from the treatment and the hospital life. You immediately notice the same shade of blue of Clarke's eyes. Jake's sharp jaw relaxes as he smiles a friendly smile at you, hands reaching out to smooth his light brown hair. He waves for you to come closer and you take a big step forward.

"So this is who my little girl has been hanging out with," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "It's Lexa, right? Nice to finally meet you," he nods at you and continues smiling.

"The honor is mine, sir," you nod as well.

"No need to be so formal, Lexa. You can just call me Jake," he says and you relax a bit.

Clarke takes her time to take the fruit out, put the bottles of water on the table. All the while explaining her university life to Jake, what had happened since the last time she saw him.

"Where's mom?" She asks while you help her slice the fruit and put it into a plate. You then take the plate to Jake as he sits up straighter in the bed.

"Thank you," he says, then turns his head to Clarke. "She went to talk with the doctors for a bit, get some information about the surgery they will all be performing on Monday or something," he starts eating the fruit, offering some of it to you.

"That's what you get when your mom works in the same hospital," Clarke laughs a bit then rolls her eyes. "I'll go look for her or she'll talk for hours and we won't even see her. I'll be right back," she says as she goes out through the door.

You're left with Jake; you swallow, hard. There's going to be "the talk", that you're sure of. Your hands shake a bit, but you pretend that you're fine. You have to.

"Take a chair, Lexa. Let's talk," Jake says as he takes another bite of the melon.

"Of course," you bring a chair closer to his bed, afraid of what's to come, of what he'll say.

"So, how have you been?" He asks sincerely. "I know it's been tough for you, if you don't mind me saying that," he gives you a sympathetic look.

"I've been… I've been trying to hold on," you mutter. "You probably think I'm no good for Clarke," you say after a pause, staring at the floor, scratching your hands.

"No, Lexa, I don't think that," he pats you on the shoulder and you look up at him. "Clarke loves you with all of her heart and it's not my business to interfere. Besides, I think you're great, at least from what Clarke has told me. And she told me tons of good things about you," he turns a bit to take a napkin from the nightstand to wipe his hands.

"But…" you try as he motions for you to stop.

"Look, Lexa, your depression doesn't change who you are at heart and what kind of personality you have," he says looking at you.

"I just… Feel worthless most of the time," you confess as you stare at the white tiles again.

"I know you're not. And Clarke knows it too, she's a smart one. So if she chose you, she chose you for who you are, not who she wants you to be. She accepts you no matter what," Jake explains. "She wants you to be yourself, with all the bad and good stuff," he tries to convince you.

"I'm always scared that I'll let her down, or that I'll hurt her," you shake your head slightly.

"Relationships are never perfect. You will hurt her, she will hurt you. It's all about being able to overcome the difficulties together, to talk, to communicate," Jake nudges your shoulder lightly. "I know that Clarke's a stubborn one, she keeps a lot of things to herself, but I see it changing. Since she met you, she's been more open," he smiles and puts down the empty plate.

Jake helps you realize something you've always denied and rejected. You're not perfect, it's impossible to be. Because no matter what, people are flawed, they always were, they always will be. What you understand is that you've never embraced the concept of who you really are.

"I think… I think you are right, Jake," you say.

You've been trying so hard to be perfect, and for so long, too. And you've been jumping from one extreme to the other. _I'm perfect, no, I'm terrible_ , that kind of thing. You never took the time to realize that you're both, at once. You were either on top of the world, or under it and you thought that it's alright to be this way. It isn't. It's high time you realized you're not a one dimensional person, you're so much more.

You smile at Jake and nod energetically.

* * *

The chat with Jake breaks the ice and you start talking about everything, from sports to philosophy and religion. Jake is smart and well versed in everything, he's respectful of different opinions and you think how wonderful it would be if there were more people like him. After a while, Clarke returns with her mother, a woman with piercing brown eyes, her hair in a braid over her shoulder. She and Clarke share the same fire in their eyes, even if they are not physically alike, there's no question that she's her daughter.

"Well it's nice to see you becoming best friends," Clarke laughs as you stand up awkwardly to greet her mother.

"My name is Lexa. It's really nice to meet you," you extend your hand, but Clarke's mom just embraces you tightly and doesn't let go for a while.

"I'm Abby," she says as she lets you go. "And don't be so formal, Lexa," Abby laughs.

"Uh, yes, of course," you say as chatter ensues between the four of you.

* * *

Jake's hospital room becomes a place where you feel very comfortable, peaceful even. The four of you spend your day by playing cards and talking, eating the fruit and other snacks that you've brought. You win and impress Jake, but annoy Clarke. Though later, she kisses your temple and squeezes your hand. Abby talks with you about the therapy sessions and asks how you've been feeling in general. In the evening, you hug both Abby and Jake as you leave the hospital room, promising to return.

"Visit me more often girls, it is lonely here," Jakes waves goodbye.

"What do you mean it's lonely? I visit you all the time," Abby says sternly and you laugh as you walk towards the exit, giving them one final nod.

Later, with Clarke asleep in your bed, you think about what Jake had said and you feel more at peace than you've probably ever been. Sometimes, good things do happen. Or so you thought.

* * *

It all comes crashing down in the form of a nightmare.

You're in a black tank top and black underwear, barefoot. Your wild wavy hair is wet and sticking to your face, especially your forehead. You look around, but you don't recognize the scenery, it looks as if you're somewhere far away from the city. Countryside maybe? There are houses, but none of them have lights in their windows. It's nighttime and the rain is pouring heavily. There are tons of big puddles around you and you try your best to avoid them, even if you're already soaking from the rain. There's something not right about them, something tells you that you'd better not step in them. Lightning strikes and the loud thunder rumbles as you hop in the hopes of avoiding the puddles. Your feet carry you as if they know where to go, but you still feel lost. You walk some more, and as you squint, you see some kind of an old-fashioned road sign. It's frightening, but you get closer to it, then take the time to inspect it. As you look up to finally read what it says, you wake up. You cough, gasping for air, your back wet and your skin clammy as you sit up and try your best to breathe. Clarke is in her dorm room tonight, hanging out with her roommate and finishing up the painting she'll have to present in class in a few days. Your fingers shake as you get up to go grab a glass of water in the dark of the room.

" _I think you're trying to get better for everyone around you. Everyone except yourself_ ," the voice of your psychiatrist says and you grab your head, almost spilling the glass of water standing near the edge of the counter. Of course you want to get better, what's the point of moping around? What's the point of not _trying_ to get better? You're not the one who'd try to play the victim, that's not how you feel and that's not what you do.

" _You're doing too well_ ," you hear his voice again. What did he mean? How can you be doing too well? It's nonsense, it has to be, right? He doesn't know what he's talking about! It's all bullshit!

" _Too well… Too well…_ " echoes in your head for a while and suddenly, it all goes silent.

Something snaps inside of you and you finally get it, you finally figure it out. You finally figure out why everything is so wrong.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello, I know it's been a while, but it's finally here - the latest and also the last chapter of Late Night Confessions. I want to thank all of you for investing your time into this fic, sharing your personal stories. I never thought this fanfic would help people deal with their problems, but I am very thankful that it's been helpful, I feel even somewhat proud.  
Thank you!**

* * *

Your forehead rests on the hard and cold wooden door. You don't know how much time has passed, but you're sure that the room is now empty. Well, except him of course. You haven't knocked; you're still waiting for something you don't understand yourself. Some motivation, the final push, a sense of courage. But what if you just left and never returned? You could pretend that you never figured it out even though you tried (you never did try). Leave, avoid confrontation, avoid conflict, avoid this hurtful situation. But no, lying, running, pretending would not help you get better, it never did. And so, even if you didn't want to discover this, even if you wanted to ignore it, you need to talk to him about this. You need his help to figure this shit out, besides, you're sure it's what he meant the last time you spoke. It's funny, only after that nightmare you understood what he meant, why he was so terrified for your well-being, concerned for your "progress". And people say dreams don't mean anything, what a stupid bunch. Dreams are probably the only signs you ever notice, you're too inattentive to notice anything else, ever. Another minute is ticking away and you sigh, then gather up your courage (or what's left of it). You need this, you need to step forward, you need to knock, you need to come clean and hope for the best. It's just…

When you do knock, it's as if the sound can be heard throughout the whole building, it's so loud you think you might have smashed through a wall or something. Or maybe it just seems so rattling because you're as tense as a bowstring.

"Come in," you hear him say calmly. "The door is open," you inhale sharply, and then push the heavy door open.

"Lexa?" The psychiatrist looks up at you, genuinely astonished. "Forgive my surprise, it's good to see you, it's been a few weeks. How are you feeling? Is something wrong?" He asks immediately after you sit in the armchair and stare at the carpet. You smile sadly at the last question and shake your head a bit, clenching the cuffs of your black hoodie.

"Not… exactly," you answer dryly. "I thought about what you said and I finally understand."

Everything beyond the room disappears into nothing; it's just you and him.

* * *

"I never tried to get better for myself," you hear yourself say. You gulp because your throat feels itchy and wrong. "I've never even thought of getting better for myself," if now is not the best time to be honest, you're not sure when will that time ever be.

He stares at you, ten, twenty, thirty seconds, and then he takes off his glasses and cleans them. Neither of you say a word; you think you hear your blood circulating in your veins, your heart beating in your chest. A shiver runs down your spine and your skin feels clammy from the cold sweat. The black undershirt is stuck to your skin and you feel uncomfortable.

"That was what I meant the last time we met, Lexa," he says and sighs shortly. "That is why I told you that you were getting better way too fast for normal development," he throws a glance at the window and then concentrates on you.

"You could've just told me, you could've just outright told me this," you shake your head. "Because you knew, you knew all too well that my progress was an empty bubble, that it didn't mean shit," you try your best to stay calm.

"No, Lexa," he steals a glance of you then looks hard at the floor. "You needed to work this out yourself, I only showed you the path," the psychiatrist takes out the clipboard from the nearest drawer and a pen from his pocket. There's no doubt he's going to commemorate this great revelation. The secret is out.

"How incredibly cliché," you blurt out as he clicks the pen and starts writing something down. He throws you a look of disapproval, but you just roll your eyes. There's a long pause before you manage to ask this nagging question that's been at the back of your mind. "Am I a lost cause?" You ask carefully and turn your head to the wall.

"Of course not!" He replies almost angrily, agitated, but then calms down. "Don't ever think that you're a lost cause. Besides, some people have it worse," he says casually.

"And most have it better," you cross your hands across your chest raising your eyebrows.

"Point taken, but individuals are unique and have a lot of things that condition their behavior – environment, family, friends, values…" he recites.

You stare through the window, the grey clouds are threatening to spill and you realize that you don't have an umbrella. You rushed out the minute you woke up – without your cell phone, wallet or umbrella. Well, the walk to the dorm room is going to be fun.

"I've never really cared about myself that much," you say suddenly. "I mostly ignored everything that came up related to my well-being," you realize how ridiculous it sounds the second the words leave your mouth.

No, it's not even ridiculous - it's outright of pathetic. Why have you never took the time and care about yourself? Oh, right, probably because you always hated yourself, that's why. For some reason, you always thought that if you started to care about yourself, you'd become a narcissistic asshole who doesn't give a damn about others. Again, black and white, jumping from one extreme to the other… You need to realize that there are shades of gray, that nothing's ever that simple. It's not healthy to hate yourself, just the same as it's not healthy to worship yourself. God, this is really frustrating. Still, hating and despising yourself won't change a thing; you'll still be you no matter what you do, that doesn't change the facts. You hazily remember how Jake said to accept who you are. But how? You're just a very, very flawed human who's not even remotely trying to change anything for the better.

"How do people get better?" You ask silently. "How do they heal?"

"They try, a lot, they work to get better. It's no small task, Lexa," he smiles a bit. "Healing is no small task. I know that you hate yourself, you've said it multiple times, or that you don't care about yourself. But just think how much energy you'd conserve, if you were more at peace with who you are," the psychiatrist encourages.

"Is that even possible?" Your voice gets hard, cold. "To accept yourself? How do you deal with failures when you know that it's all you all the time?" You ask and lower your gaze so now you're staring at the red carpet. How do other people work it out? How do they forgive themselves after they fail? Because you never seem to let go. " _Hey, remember that time you fucked up four months ago… There's always that time when…"_ These thoughts are constantly buzzing in your head, never leaving you alone.

"You adjust, you accept it, you deem to try and do better, make better choices," he adjusts in his seat and coughs a bit. "You get stubborn and don't back down no matter what."

"What if I wake up one day and realize that I don't like my choices?" You counter.

"Lexa, there are infinite possibilities for things to go wrong. Isn't it better to concentrate on what is good right now?" The psychiatrist asks honestly. "Isn't it worth trying at least?"

You sit there, thinking, thinking, wondering. You realize how you've never thought of things going the right way, probably because you were always scared that if you think too optimistically, invest yourself too much – you'll burn. And look at how that turned out to be – your view on everything is laced with cynicism and a constant question of " _When will everything go wrong?_ " haunts your mind. You pretend it doesn't hurt as much when you're being pessimistic, because you knew it would happen, you knew it couldn't have worked out. Truth is, it hurts even more because every time you feel knocked down even lower than the last time. There's no motivation to think everything will go well this time or that time, it's a constant ride of disappointment.

Yet people work on themselves to get better, they try. You need to start doing that.

"Where do I start?" You ask simply.

* * *

It's the end of March and even though it's warm, the rain doesn't stop. It never stops; you don't remember the last time the weather was relevantly ok. It's always cloudy with no chance in seeing the sunlight. Hands in your pockets, you try your best to walk as fast as you can. Not that it matters, you're already soaked. You think back to the talk you had, you can't help but feel lighter, you're even filled with…hope? But at the same time, you feel terrible, outright gruesome. You're not sure you'll get better, you're not sure everything won't just crash down and end in pain and sorrow. You know nothing, and it's the most liberating or the most terrifying revelation (you don't know which one, yet). You're not cured, you're not even better, all of your progress was an illusion, something you could feed others with. Look, I'm feeling decent, look, I'm not hurting myself, look, look, look… You just realize that you got worse and there's no point to sugarcoat it. You've been in this stasis, frozen, pretending to get better, pretending to care about yourself. But you never did. You just thought how you needed to get better for Clarke, for your parents, for your friends. You needed to get better for everyone but yourself. You thought how you needed to stand up on your own two feet and stop weighing them down. The fact is, you weren't weighing them down, you were just slowly immersing yourself in water, and before you knew it, it was too late. You drowned.

You need to stop ignoring your mistakes; you need to own up to them.

* * *

"Lexa?" Clarke asks as you open the door to your room. She just stands there, frozen, not knowing what to say for a while. "Oh my god, I was so worried, where were you? I tried calling you multiple times, only to notice that you left your phone," she runs up to you with eyes wide open and hugs you tightly even though you're drenched.

"I…I'm," you try, your throat suddenly dry, itchy. You cough a bit, but it doesn't help. "I'm fine, Clarke. Really. I went to see my psychiatrist. Sorry that I didn't tell you," you say. Clarke holds your look, blue eyes questioning, searching, but she doesn't say anything more, just nods.

You carefully take off your black hoodie, feeling lighter as the blonde goes to the bathroom to bring you a dry towel. Clarke then takes a few steps to boil water for tea or coffee, and then just stares silently at you. Your black undershirt sticks to your skin and you have difficulties taking it off. The damn thing just makes you annoyed.

"Here, let me help you," Clarke says as she carefully removes the shirt and you step out of your black skinny jeans which are too hard to take off. You almost fall face first on the ground. "Are you cold?" She asks, but you just shake your head. You feel fine.

She makes you black tea while you try to dry your hair, sitting on the chair only in your black underwear. You pat your hair and think about the conversation you had, how you agreed to see your psychiatrist twice a week instead of once. You're not sure it will help, but when were you ever sure of anything in your life?

"Are you hungry?" Clarke asks, concern evident in her bright eyes, her hands grip the edges of the counter while she leans her back on it. You feel like an idiot for leaving your phone here, she must've been worried sick when she didn't find you in your room. Especially when she said she would come over. You say that it was an emergency; you needed to see him (it isn't even a lie).

"No, I'm good, thanks," you say as you continue to pat yourself dry with the soft towel. Your skin is covered in goosebumps, but it doesn't feel clammy anymore.

Clarke turns away to brew herself some coffee. Now's your chance. You put down the towel silently and tiptoe to her, carefully embracing her waist, putting your chin on her shoulder. You squeeze a bit and hold her as close as you can.

"You're cold," she puts her warm hands on yours, giggling.

"I know," you whisper and kiss her shoulder through the white T-shirt. "I'm sorry."

"I love you," Clarke whispers as she turns in your hands. You stare into her eyes for a second before answering.

"I know," you repeat as you turn your head a bit to leave a trail of kisses down her neck.

Your tea and her coffee are left forgotten, untouched.

* * *

She bites your collarbone as she pushes you forcefully to bed. Every move is desperate, passionate. Your fingers find the hem of her shirt and you get rid of it in one swift motion, throwing it somewhere on the floor, near the table. Your hands go back to her waist and massage the warm skin there, but at the same time pulling her towards you. Clarke undoes her own pants and swiftly takes them off before you both fall onto the unmade bed. She straddles you; her hips bracket your thighs as her hands find your shoulders. You like this, feeling the weight of her, never minding how she's always on top of you. You smile a bit and stare at her slightly disheveled hair; her blue eyes with the pupils dilated, hunger evident in them. Her gracious neck, her favorite lacy bra, her smooth stomach and ample hips... Clarke smirks, then runs her thumb across your lower lip, then cups your cold cheek. You hungrily place your hands on her hips and squeeze a bit, making Clarke laugh. She stops laughing the minute you hook your fingers in her underwear and start slowly dragging it down.

"Lexa," she says breathlessly and you know; you understand the question without words.

"Clarke," you say simply as you lick your lips before they latch somewhere slightly above the edge of her bra. Clarke's eyes close in ecstasy; her left hand tangles in your hair and pulls you closer.

Clarke then suddenly surges forward, seeking your mouth, crashing your lips together. You slip in against her tongue, explore her mouth, meanwhile your fingers go upwards and undo her bra, which she takes off herself. She lunges into you again with so much passion, you feel like you're burning up from the heat, the love, the beginning and the end. The moment she removes your last garment, you flip the two of you over and land on top of her. The blonde raises an eyebrow before pulling you closer to her, encouraging whatever you had planned. You kiss her skin slowly; it's as if you're mapping every crevice, every skin cell. Your fingers trace every curve, every bump, every ridge. You already knew all of them long before; it doesn't mean you have to stop worshipping her.

"Lexa…" Clarke is breathless again. It's not a plead, it's not a question, it's a statement.

You make your way down to her stomach, then lower, lower, lower… You eat her out so slowly that her thighs keep quivering long after you're done.

* * *

It's been a week since you last saw your psychiatrist.

"You'll get worse before you get better, Lexa," he said in a knowing tone. "It's inevitable."

You dismissed it, thinking " _not me, no way_ ", but everything did crash down, vanish, disappear. You feel like you need to cry, to let it all out, but it's the best time right now. You sit in a boring class and wonder what Clarke's thinking now. You think back to the moment you met, the moment you kissed, the moment you had sex for the first time. Could anything that happened in your life have been different? Would you have chosen differently? You feel trapped and to be honest, a little lost.

You're probably a bad person, right? Nothing ever feels right, even the things that should. You probably have the highest grades here, so what? You still feel like a stranger every time you attend class, you still feel like a slacker who never does anything. You're lazy, boring and pretentious. Sometimes, you think that you just lie to yourself, pretend to be happy so that you can trick yourself. Trick yourself into thinking you're not a lost cause. But you are, it will always be like this, no matter how many times other people will object and deny. You wonder who you truly are, behind all of those masks you wear and are forced to wear. Life is just an act. Put on one mask, act out a scene. A pause. Then you change your mask and pretend again. It goes on and on and on… When are you being yourself? Where is this "you" in all of this uncertainty, in all of these masked disguises? Was there ever a "you"? Or did you always belong to other people, to those who grabbed a piece early on? You feel disassociated, like it's not your body, like it's not you. It's as if you're standing somewhere nearby and looking at yourself, never being able to understand which one is the real one. Was there ever a real one?

Everyone keeps saying that it gets better, but does it? It all depends on the effort. You feel worse by the hour, by the day. Clarke does her best to cheer you up, and you feel grateful for that, but to be honest, it's not something that can be fixed with a cheesy pun, sexual reference or a lame joke. Though you do appreciate her efforts.

There's heavy silence in the room, even though there should be chatter. Suddenly you hear the spring rain outside. You try your best not to cry.

It doesn't matter anymore.

* * *

"How are you doing?" Your dad asks without the usual coldness in his voice; and you're thankful at least for that because you can't deal with anything anymore.

"I'm doing fine, dad," you say automatically. Something says that he did not buy it, because he sighs into the phone and you brace yourself for a never ending tirade of doom.

"Lexa, you don't have to lie," he sighs again. "We all want you to get better," he whispers into the phone. Really? Does he really mean that?

"How convenient," you counter coldly. It comes naturally; you've always talked with your parents like that. Though you do feel a pang of guilt because your dad's questions seem genuine. You curse yourself for being like this and swear to at least try to be more sociable.

"I know mom and I haven't been the best parents. We haven't been around that much and you managed to do everything on your own, become an outstanding individual, but please do not forget that we still love you," he tries, and your heart just sinks.

You bring up your left hand to your forehead, shielding your face, shaking your head. People give you a second chance without a backward look, even if you keep fucking up. You need to do the same; it's not fair for you to judge others for something like this, never even giving them a second chance if they screw up. You pace around the room a bit, feeling as if your heart is going to jump out of your chest any second. You swallow roughly. Your hands are shaking. Your dad waits patiently, even though it takes you minute to reply.

"I'm sorry," you want to cry; you choke on your words. "I'm sorry," the tears spill and roll down your cheeks. You choke out another sob.

"We might not understand everything that is going on, but we love you no matter what," he says sadly, and you just breakdown completely.

You cry into the phone, clutching it to your ear, and keep apologizing until there are no tears left, until you're not even sure if blood is still running through your veins.

"Lexa, darling," you hear your mom's voice on the phone. "Don't cry, it's ok."

"No, it's not," you wipe your face with your free hand. "I'm not sure anything can help me, I feel trapped and I feel like I'll never get better. And I just keep hurting everyone," you confess to the person you thought you'd never say these words.

"You will, of course you will get better," she says. "You just need time, you can't get better in an instant, that's not how it works," mom explains warmly, and you suddenly calm down.

"I…I really hope so," you say, trying to calm your breath.

The rest of the call went ok and for the first time in who knows how long, you didn't want it to end.

* * *

"Girls, I am so happy that you came to see me," Jake smiles and you smile right back. "Clarke, I do hope you brought what I asked?" You look at Jake, then you look at her confused, but Clarke just rolls her eyes and searches her purse.

"Here," she says as she gives him a bar of milk chocolate. When you realize what's going on, you start laughing hysterically.

"You're sneaking him snacks, really? That's badass, Clarke," you say and Jake starts laughing too. "You must be really brave to defy Abby. You know, I will never forget you babe," you hold up your hand and Jake gives you a high-five.

Clarke looks annoyed, but still kisses your cheek. She smiles a bright smile before saying she's going to go and find Abby so the four of you can spend some time together and have fun.

"Eat your chocolate, dad," she warns before going out through the door.

You take the chair near a small window and sit closer to Jake. You've been visiting him quite often; he seems a lot happier when you and Clarke come by to see him. Jake is feeling better too; he's not as pale as he was, and he's smiling more, eating more as well. Abby once said to you that he's been taking some new meds that really help him out a lot, and you just feel grateful that he's doing ok, that he's not getting worse. That's your main wish for him – to not get worse, to keep fighting, to keep winning.

"So, Lexa, what's new?" He opens the wrapper and starts eating the chocolate slowly. "So good," he says to himself as he closes his eyes for a bit.

"Not much, I've been seeing my psychiatrist more," you remember. "I'm also trying to manage all of my classes and etc. But I just, I don't know. Why do I feel so tired all of the time?" You ask rhetorically and smile sadly.

"Because the hardest battles are always fought within, Lexa," Jake nudges you a bit with his free hand. "Because you're trying to get better and that is never easy," he takes another bite of the milk chocolate bar.

"I think I'm not the one to complain," you say honestly as you look him in the eyes.

"Why?" He asks. "Because some have it worse? I'll be brutal, but honest with you, Lexa – does it make a difference in your life that the children of Africa are facing world hunger every day?" You're so taken aback that you can't come up with an answer for a few minutes; you feel as if you forgot how to speak.

"It doesn't, they have nothing to do with you. Because it's not immediately related to your life," He explains and then tries to elaborate more on his thoughts. "It doesn't mean that you can't feel sorry for them, help them or donate money, but what I mean is – if we start thinking about how others have it worse than us, we'll never be happy. I'm not saying to stop caring about others, no, always show empathy, be sympathetic of people's problems, but don't let it dictate how you feel," you're always amazed how Jake Griffin just spews wisdom in every direction he can. You're not sure you ever met a person who knew so much about life.

"That's… That's a lot to take in, Jake," you sit there like you've just been hit with a brick.

"Because if other people have it worse, then a lot of other people have it better, right? So what? We should not be happy because there are people who are happier? Hell no," Clarke's dad says seriously. "Your problems, struggles, issues are important to you because they're yours; you are allowed to be upset. Do not let anyone, _anyone_ , invalidate how you feel," he concludes.

You're not sure why, but you just start crying. When did you become such a cry baby? Jake doesn't say anything, just puts his hand on your shoulder as you cry and cry hard.

"Are we clear?" He asks gently, shaking you a bit and looking sympathetically into your eyes once you stop crying.

"Crystal," you say as you wipe the tears and smile at him.

"Good," he puts the wrapper on the counter near the bed.

* * *

Clarke and Abby return a few minutes later, Clarke staring so intently at you that you feel confused and lost.

"Dad, I swear, if you made my girlfriend cry because you said something insensitive, then I'm going to..." Clarke starts, but you interrupt her.

"No," you shake your head. "It's the opposite, Clarke. Jake gave me a serious pep talk. Probably the best anyone has ever given me," you smile at her and she kisses your temple gingerly.

"Lexa," Abby nods at you and you nod right back. "Why there's a chocolate bar wrapper here?" She asks and the three of you suddenly freeze, eyes wide, not able to say a word.

"Oh, sorry, it was me," you quickly say. "I just forgot to throw it away, I'm sorry," you blurt out so suddenly, you don't even realize you've said something.

"Oh, that's alright, Lexa" Abby says waves her hand dismissively. "I'm going to go and bring some medicine for you, Jake," she points at him and turns to the door.

"The ones that taste like shit?" Jake asks and Clarke starts giggling.

"Yes, those," she says and disappears behind the door.

"Wooh," the three of you relax when Abby leaves. "That was quick thinking, kid," Jake says.

The three of you start laughing so hard, that when Abby returns, she half-jokingly suggests sedating all of you.

* * *

"Want to grab some coffee?" Octavia asks after she's grabbed you by the wrist in a university corridor. You got so startled; you didn't say a word for good 30 seconds.

"Sure," you say once your heartbeat goes back to normal. "Grab Raven?" You raise your brow in question.

"Of course. Clarke?" She asks as she searches her backpack for the needed book.

"Clarke has two more classes after this one," you explain as you hold everything she takes out of her backpack and hands to you. "Octavia, why the fuck do you have so much stuff in your bag?" You laugh at her.

"Because I need all of it," Octavia explains, still not able to find the book for her next class.

"Really?" You roll your eyes and she stops and pushes your shoulder playfully. "The recipe book and a pair of mittens I understand, I don't understand the meat thermometer and a calendar from 4 years ago," you start laughing so hard, you almost drop all of her stuff on the floor.

"Oh shush," Octavia finally takes out the physics book. "Not everyone can be a goody two-shoes like you. Want me to sing you that song?" She mocks you.

"Don't you dare," you threaten her, but she just kisses your cheek and runs off to class.

You laugh some more until you realize you're late to yours.

* * *

"So, Lexa, how have you been?" Raven asks as she hands you the fresh cup of coffee. You three decided to crash at Octavia's and Raven's for a change and have a cozy afternoon there.

"I'm not sure, Raven," you take a sip before noticing Octavia is already pouring herself another cup. "Octavia, you're an addict," you yell across the room.

"No, it's all of you who are not normal," she replies. "I can't understand how you can live without this," she mutters under her breath as she flops down on the small sofa next to you.

"Lexa?" Raven asks from her armchair.

"Oh, right," you take another sip and then stare at the bitter liquid. "I don't know. Some days I feel better, some days I feel worse," you slowly say.

"Well yeah, nothing's ever perfect, and nothing's ever too bad," Raven agrees.

You spend your afternoon drinking hot coffee and reminiscing.

* * *

"It's not that easy, Clarke," you roll your eyes at her.

"Lexa, some things are easy, stop thinking that everything is super complicated and has tons of super secret meanings," she shakes her head, as if to drive away what you've asked.

"But why?" You don't give up, asking again.

"I just do, there are millions of reasons, but you won't believe any of them," the blonde says as she sits and puts down the plate in front of you, then she hands you the bread.

"Why? Why do you love me?" You press as Clarke puts her own plate full of food in front of herself. She takes a generous gulp of red wine before answering.

"Because…" Clarke chews. "Because you're incredibly smart, like wow, I feel like a dumbass with you all of the time. Well, not a dumbass, but I am so proud that you're so smart. You kick ass in all of your classes with no effort," she laughs as she pours wine into your glass.

"I do put in some effort, Clarke. You exaggerate," you put some more salad onto your plate.

"I also never met a kinder person. You never deny anyone, you always try to help, you always try to be there for everyone," she takes another bite of the steak. "You're a goody two-shoes," she pats your shoulder and you almost choke on the potato you're eating.

"What is it with everyone calling me that?" You ask, definitely not amused.

"Because it's true," she points her fork at you. "Moreover, you're stunning, like breath-taking, beautiful, ethereal," Clarke makes you blush, so you take another bite of the potato.

"Stop it," you turn away from her in embarrassment.

"No, I'm saying the truth," she takes a napkin to wipe the corner of her mouth. "I still get extremely excited when I get you naked, because I can't believe you're mine. Besides, you're charming, attentive, a great listener and many other things that would take me too long to list," the blonde concludes as she sips on her wine some more.

"I love you too," you say seriously as you finish eating, wiping your lips from the sauce.

"Why?" Clarke asks and cocks her head to the side, challenge evident in her eyes.

You were never really good with words so instead, you choose to show her.

* * *

Things rarely change, and you honestly think that people never change. You sit staring at the world outside, staring at the students with their big and colorful umbrellas. The cup of tea in your hand is almost cold, but you don't care.

You don't feel that much better, but you've realized that it's a long road and you need to put in some actual effort to even take a little step down that road. Some days you feel like you can't breathe, like everything is too much and you're too tired to deal with anything. Some days you feel like a decent human being. Some days you feel that familiar itch, the one when your skin begs for the razor, but you try your best to ignore it. You just go out and smoke a few cigarettes instead (not a very good solution, but better than the alternative nonetheless). There are days when you hate everything around you, when you want to leave and never turn back. There are days when you want to lash out all of the pent up anger, but you never do because the people around don't deserve that. There are days when you feel like you never want to leave this place and these people.

Every day is different, every day is a struggle, but you think that every day does not feel like a battle anymore because you're no longer at war with yourself or the world. It's all about wanting to improve yourself, to get better, to heal.

Some days are easy, some are not.

* * *

It's 3:43 AM, Saturday night. You are Lexa. Your girlfriend Clarke is sleeping right next to you in your dorm room, in your soft yet a bit narrow bed.

You have no idea what life has in store for you; you don't know if you'll get better, you don't know anything. What you do know is that there will be ups and downs because life is a roller-coaster and nothing ever stays the same. You have lived through every bad day you've ever had, even if you didn't want to sometimes, and that must amount to something.

Some days will be easy, some won't.

You are Lexa, and these are your late night confessions.


End file.
